Jinxed
by ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: After being rescued from Vault 87, Fawkes quickly realizes that the ill-named Lone Wanderer is still in the process of becoming her destiny. A coming of age story, with eventual slow romance.
1. Prime Numbers

He stares at the shadows on the wall, grey against the relentless red glare of the lights outside. Once again, he tries to keep calm. There is only so much 'I Spy' one can play with oneself in a small cell, but he has been trying to calculate prime numbers. He has gone as far as one thousand, one hundred and fifty-one before, but does not remember all the numbers intervening between that and two. He idly wonders if attempting to devise an equation to calculate prime numbers _for_ him would provide an interesting diversion, or if, once completed, it would simply rob him of the limited pleasure of something to think about. Intellectual pleasure is a rare commodity now that his terminal is destroyed.

So he starts again. He makes it as far as thirty-seven before hearing footsteps. Normally this would not concern him—hours, days, weeks can blur at a time in this cell. It would not surprise him if he had lost track of the guards' schedule.

But this is different. Despite the dull weight of each footfall, there is a metal clank to it, and the sounds are sharper—less thick, less heavy—than those of his fellow meta humans.

He forces himself to reach forty-seven before allowing himself to hope.

By now, two figures are visible—two humanoid figures, plus a dog. Both of the people are wearing metal armor, thick scales and plating scarred with gashes and scorch marks that only come from heavy use. Despite this, the equipment is well maintained—functional, if not beautiful. The shorter of the two wears power armor of a different model than the tall one, blue crackles playing over the power pack strapped to the back. The eyes glow an ominous yellow as the short one tilts its head to examine him through the glass. The bulkiness of the armor does not allow him to guess at the owner's build, but despite the person's diminutive stature—possibly five feet, not even level with his chest—there is no doubt as to which of the two is in charge.

"Why would they imprison one of their own?" the small one asks, voice tinny and garbled through the metal helmet and filtered through the primitive intercom of his cell. It sounds vaguely feminine, though it could be a trick of the acoustics.

Her tall companion just grunts, shrugging. "I don't like the looks of this place. We should keep moving." His voice is coarse and grating, either naturally rougher or because his vocal synthesizers need a tune-up.

Fawkes' heart jumps to his throat, so choked he become momentarily terrified that despite having dreamed of this moment for as long as he can remember… he might lose the words now that he needs them. So he calls, "Hello? Are you… quite real? A pure human?" Even to his own ears, his voice is thick, speech gone rusty with disuse.

"Yes. That's me, alright. And who are you?" the small one asks, still tilting her head curiously. She taps futilely at the side of her helmet, shaking her head with displeasure while he responds.

"You actually care who I am?" he says with dull disbelief, feeling an unfamiliar ache across his cheeks. A smile. He must be smiling. "A surprise. I have lived most of my life in this cage being struck and beaten by the others."

Finally, disgusted with whatever failure of sound quality she is experiencing through the helmet, the small woman lifts it from her head. Her hair is dyed brilliant scarlet, flaming like a sunset as if capturing what little light remains in this nightmare of a vault. While currently plastered to her head from the weight of the helmet, he notes that the sides are cropped short, only allowing a central plume to remain long, like the plumage of some exotic bird. Her other arresting feature is her eyes, pale blue and almost glowing with intensity. He does not miss their slight constriction and the twitchiness about their pupils. Despite her alertness, those could also be signs of chem withdrawal.

The rest of her is of relatively little note—dark skin, ambiguously brown and possibly descending from any of half a dozen blood ancestries. Thin face, somewhat haggard about the edges. Pointed chin, snub nose—mostly just _young_ looking. Her brilliant eyes, her hair, her youth—those are the major impressions he collects of her physical appearance.

It comforts him that her intelligence does not disappoint either. Grinning fiercely, she quips, "How ironic that the others consider you a mutant of their kind."

He cannot help laughing, even if it is a pained sound that gurgles through his chest. "Yes. Indeed it is ironic. Forgive my astonishment, but I hadn't expected to meet someone with such a learned outlook of these things." Even while speaking, he cannot help feeling shame over how crude his voice sounds; he may have the vocabulary, but conversation is an art he has had little chance to practice, and he is keenly aware of the difference between her smooth silver patter and his slow, clumsy words. "It is a pleasant change. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. It was only a matter of time before someone like you showed up for the GECK."

He knows he struck home by her sudden snap to attention, eyes widening just a fraction before narrowing with intensity. Her lips thin briefly, biting back before quickly asking, "The GECK? You know what it is?"

"I know what it is. I know where it is, and best of all…" He allows himself a trace of pride, smiling. "I know how you can get your hands on it."

"…why would you help me?" she whispers, and for a moment, all he can wonder is how did someone so young get so jaded, that an offer of help would cause such shock and confusion. It almost pains him to offer the deal he's been planning ever since he gained enough cognizance to plot escape.

"Because you can help me."

She just nods grimly, lips twisting into a wry grin. "Of course. That's the way it works, isn't it?" Her eyes shine bright as homing beacons in the dank shadows of the Vault. For a moment he thinks they look wet—but she blinks and the illusion is dispelled.

"It is a fair trade. Let me out of this place, please." He means to leave it at just that, he really does—but just talking, exchanging pleasantries, feels like such an unexpected joy that it salts the wound of the previous days, months, _years_ of whatever eternity he has been down here. "I can't take it anymore," he howls, desperation clawing up through his throat. He slumps against the glass, palms flat against the wall of his cell as he stares down at her pleadingly. "I can't even recall how long I've been here. Take me with you, and I'll retrieve the GECK for you."

"Why would I have difficulty getting the GECK?" she asks, fingers drumming against the device strapped to her wrist. With some wonder, he recognizes it's a Pip-Boy.

"The chamber in which the GECK resides is absolutely flooded with radiation. It's unlikely you'd survive very long. Myself, on the other hand, have surprisingly inherited a useful trait from my fellow meta humans," he explains, fixing his gaze on hers. While well aware that most would call his kind 'mutants,' he hopes this appeal to their shared humanity will strike a chord. "I am highly resistant to radiation. Let me out of here, and I will place the GECK safely in your hands."

She does not hesitate before asking "How do I get you out?"

After giving her the instructions to access the terminal controlling the cell doors, she looks up at him. Drums her fingers on her Pip-Boy, then reaches up to place one palm flat against the glass. Her fingers barely brush against the base of his wrist, a transient touch through the thick barrier.

"For the record, I was going to free you even without the GECK," she whispers. Then she puts her helmet back on and lopes down the corridor, dog and tall man following.


	2. Parting Company

He has time to think about her odd comment, reflecting on the unexpected kindness of others. Then he hears a click, tumblers whirling through the metal door, and then their footsteps as they return. He steps out as soon as the door opens, breathing deeply through his nostrils. Even the stale air of the vault is fresher than the recycled environment of his cage.

"Finally! Freedom! True freedom! I cannot thank you enough for this gift!" he exclaims, almost delirious with joy. He turns slowly, hands tilted up as if to embrace the very ceiling. He imagines his spine flexing and decompressing as he allows himself to stand tall, free of the confines of his small cell. "You have no idea how long I have pictured this moment in my mind….. and it feels far better than I'd imagined. Now follow me, and I'll hold up my end of the deal."

"One moment, my good man," she says, voice gone tinny and warbled through her helmet once more. "There are still more super mutants around, and I don't think all of them will be as nice as you. Charon, do we have anything…?"

"A spare sledgehammer. If we must," her companion says grudgingly.

Her voice is grave, leaving him to wonder if she is being ironic or serious as she responds, "Yes, we must."

So he is handed a sledgehammer. Hefting the bulky weapon, he gives it an experimental swing to get a feel for its weight. It'll do; not his preferred choice, but better than his bare fists.

"What's your name?" she asks, holding some sort of modified plasma rifle against her side. He would like to take a closer look at it—it appears to have a few unique alterations that intrigue him—but this is neither the time nor place.

"Fawkes."

She nods. "I'm Jinx. This is Charon and Dogmeat. In case it wasn't obvious, Dogmeat is the dog."

Charon does not laugh, so Fawkes keeps his own amusement at her need to clarify simply to a restrained smile.

The rest of their journey passes quickly; as Jinx suspects, several of his less intelligent brethren are roaming the halls. He has not had the opportunity to see his own reflection since… his mind scurries away from that thought. He has not had the opportunity to see himself in a while, but he can see his own hands, his arms, his form—and he recognizes the effect of the Forced Evolutionary Virus on the other meta humans. Little wonder that Charon was hesitant to trust him with more than a simple melee weapon; after having fought long and hard enough to acquire their armor's scarred appearance, they must have learned to associate 'mutant' with 'enemy.'

It makes Jinx's trust of him all the more perplexing.

Particularly as she's not an especially good fighter; her equipment is well maintained, yes; and she can certainly point and shoot, but he notices she prefers to hang back, letting Charon and Dogmeat (and himself, for that matter) engage while she approaches slowly, preferring to take stealthy shots and fade into darkness or behind a barrier. Even in the power armor, her style is more of a skirmisher or infiltrator. He reflects she must have only acquired the armor relatively recently.

Whatever she lacks in combat experience though, she compensates with dexterity and cleverness. She has an almost obsessive compulsion to check every terminal they pass, hacking codes and prying out whatever hidden secrets are buried in the machines. Locks are little more than shiny invitations, popping open with just a little coaxing from a bobby pin and her trusty screwdriver.

Charon endures her dallying in silence, his expression impossible to read beneath his armor. Fawkes is not so used to this, so asks,

"Why do you stop to examine everything?"

"Never know when it'll be useful," she mutters distractedly, stowing a plastic bag of Rad-Away in her pack. "Plus, morbid curiosity."

"Over?" he asks, curious himself.

"How deep the nightmares go. The vaults were… They were never meant to save anyone," she laughs, but the laughter is brittle on the edges. He imagines her eyes shining again, wet with unshed tears, glowing with mania to keep the sorrow at bay. "I should know. I met their designer."

Impossible. The entire vault system was implemented over two centuries ago… but despite the edginess of her withdrawal symptoms, she speaks with quiet confidence of that fact. Fawkes is uncertain whether that should confirm or dispel his concerns about her sanity, but fears this is not the time nor place to ask.

Thankfully, she does not make more troubling admissions. Instead, they make it to the room before the irradiated corridors leading to the GECK. He immediately lopes off through the metal tunnels, knowing the green glow washing over him will do him no harm. Jinx follows for a few feet, but the rapid ticking of the miniature Geiger counter on her Pip-Boy quickly dissuades her. He hears snatches of conversation between her and Charon, but most of it is lost through the distortions of the metal tunnel. Its narrow, labyrinthine confines bring disquieting echoes of his prolonged isolation, but it is bearable. He must only endure for a few minutes after all; a more than fair price for the gift of freedom. Finally, GECK in hand, he meets the odd trio once more.

Their conversation does not seem to have gone well—they are facing each other, Jinx's arms squarely crossed in front of her. Charon is staring back impassively (or perhaps not? With the helmets on, it is so difficult to tell), while Dogmeat sits beside Jinx, tail thumping the ground. The dog has obviously chosen his side.

"As promised, here's the GECK. I hope it's worth it," Fawkes adds hesitantly, unsure of how to approach this tense tableau. "Well, I'm afraid this is where you and I part company. I'll find my way out of this place, don't worry. Maybe we'll meet again somewhere in the Wasteland."

"You can't come with me?" Jinx quickly asks, uncrossing her arms and turning to face him.

"I apologize." Fawkes surprises even himself with the regret in his voice. Strange as the young woman is, she was a welcome change from his normal visitors. "I'm afraid a super mutant wouldn't be welcome in the places you frequent. All I'd do is cause you undue attention and probably get you killed."

And because he worries she might change his mind, he swiftly turns, racing out through the vault.


	3. Suicide Mission

He is amazed at how familiar the vault feels; without even thinking about it, he knows which way to turn to reach the stairs, a faint tickle in the back of his mind as he considers which doors once led to the infirmary, or the science labs—

The science labs bring back disquieting echoes, dull pain without true memory to back it up. Fawkes suspects from the remnants of his own tattered Vault suit that he must have been a resident of Vault 87, before being altered by the FEV into his current state.

Perhaps, if he had truly been one of the _original_ residents, he himself might be over two centuries old. It is a shame he does not remember anything beyond his cell, even if he has this ghost-map memory of the vault's layout, much like the mental map that enabled him to bring Jinx the GECK.

Though perhaps if he himself is considering being over two hundred years old, he should not sneer at Jinx's comment on meeting one of the original Vault-Tec designers. While unlikely, there are possibilities; mutation, neural uploads, simulations…

At least these are more interesting considerations than trying to remember what prime number came before one-thousand one hundred and fifty-one.

Once at the first level, he reconsiders his route. The main vault entrance (and exit) looks as if it leads through a densely populated area containing more of his meta human brethren, most of them heavily armed. He risks a glance through, but realizes most of them are running, moving down the pass. He hears explosions, the sizzle of lasers and plasma—the sounds of battle. Something is coming up, and the super mutants are engaging it. This doesn't look like a safe path, but Jinx and her companions must have come by another route. He does not remember another exit, but perhaps…?

Operating on a hunch, he sweeps back through the first floor. Knowing Jinx and her habits, he looks for areas that seem suspiciously picked clean of valuable or interesting equipment, for unlocked drawers and computers where the passwords have been deciphered.

He is rewarded when he discovers the metal wall that slides to reveal a large cave, and grins. Sliding through, he hears laughter—children's laughter? Incredible to believe that there could be children here; he suspects it must be an old tape set on replay. But when he emerges, blinking, into an immense cavern strung with white lights, he quickly realizes most of its residents are barely waist-high to him.

_Children_.

A boy wearing an oversized helmet with goggles on it scowls ferociously at his approach, reaching for his rifle with an easy familiarity that belies the mismatched nature of his equipment. "Hold it right there, greenie!"

Slowly, Fawkes lowers his sledgehammer. He might be able to attack, yes, but the idea of killing a child, even one that is threatening him, makes him ill at ease. And even if he were to kill the small boy, where would he go from here? Instead, he speaks slowly, trying to make himself sound as civilized as possible. "Please, sir. I mean you no harm."

The boy's eyebrows rise, disappearing under the oversized helmet, but it does not dim his ferocity in the slightest. "Stay in line and everything will be a-oh-fucking-kay. Did the mungo send you?" he demands.

"Mungo? Do you mean Jinx?" Fawkes asks. He does not know what the term 'mungo' means, and doubts it is terribly respectful… but then again, Jinx _must_ have come through here in order to reach Vault 87…

"Yeah, that's the lady." The child's eyes are guarded, teeth bared in a possessive snarl.

"She set me free, so yes."

"So where's Jinx?"

The prickly child sounds genuinely concerned for her; a testament to Jinx's knack for making unexpected friends. "In the Vault, last I saw. She and Charon appeared to be discussing something."

The boy curses under his breath, and then narrows his eyes into a glare. "Fine. We're giving her another hour, then we're closing the door and shutting the juice. We don't need any more muties coming through. Get outta Little Lamplight and we'll call it quits."

"I would be happy to leave if you will show me the way out," Fawkes pleads, hands still up. "If I may retrieve my weapon…?"

"Sure, but I'm keeping an eye on you."

Bending slowly, trying to make each motion as nonthreatening as possible, Fawkes picks up his sledgehammer.

Another small child appears, carrying a battered laser rifle, and takes position by the entrance to Vault 87 at the boy's orders. While she lacks the tightly-coiled aggression of the first child, there is a wariness to her posture, coupled with the small calluses on her hands and faint lines about her eyes, that indicate she is also no stranger to battle. Realizing the boy must hold a position of authority around here, Fawkes tentatively asks, "May I have the honor of your name?"

"Honor's all yours, mutie. I'm Mayor MacCready, and I'm in charge of this little slice of paradise. You mess with any of us and I'll blow your head off." Foul-mouthed and foul-tempered as the young mayor might be, Fawkes decides that's no idle threat.

"I am Fawkes. Might I ask how Jinx managed to earn your trust?"

"Fox? Huh. Weird name for a mutie. Jinx isn't so bad for a mungo. Three Dog yammers about her all the time on the radio, and she rescues people 'n shit like that. She's more like a kid at heart." Behind those words is a measure of grudging respect. "But enough chit-chat. We're getting your green ass out of here."

"Hey, MacCready! There's another one!" the little girl with the laser rifle whispers. Metal-shod footsteps are echoing through the passage, and Charon emerges carrying Dogmeat. The dog is growling, snapping futilely at the metal suit and squirming in an effort to get free.

"Close the door," the man growls.

"Where's Jinx?" MacCready demands.

"Close the door unless you want Enclave soldiers pouring in," Charon snaps. "They grabbed Jinx and the GECK, and are leaving down Murder Pass."

MacCready swears a blue streak, immediately typing in the terminal commands to lock the door. With a scowl, he powers down the door mechanisms, leaving it an inert lump of metal once more. Once the door is shut, Charon sets the dog down. Dogmeat immediately starts digging futilely against the door, howling in dismay.

"Shut the dog up! Enclave took Jinx?" MacCready continues, looking as if he just might start firing at Charon out of sheer spite.

Charon shakes his head, removing his helmet—and Fawkes realizes with shock that Charon is a ghoul after all, his raw voice disguised by the helmet's distortion—and says, "You try shutting the dog up. Enclave took her, yes."

"Where to?" Fawkes asks, voice tight.

"I don't know. Best bet would be somewhere to the north—we already mapped most of the territories elsewhere. It's not like an Enclave base would be easy to miss," the ghoul rasps, decaying lips pressed tight.

"So much for the fucking hero of the Wastes…" MacCready groans, shoulders slumping. But then he glares at both Charon and Fawkes again. "You two freaky mungoes aren't welcome here without Jinx. You both get out."

Charon forms a lipless smile, far too many teeth showing. "Agreed."

Fawkes follows listlessly behind Charon, Charon leading the way to the entrance of Little Lamplight. Dogmeat trails dejectedly behind, still giving a mournful howl on occasion, while MacCready brings up the rear. Fawkes strongly suspects the rifle is aimed at both him and Charon, waiting for either of them to step out of line.

If the situation weren't so alarming, Fawkes thinks he might enjoy this brief glimpse of Little Lamplight—for a community that's entirely underground, it appears to be doing quite well. The presence of so many children—the oldest no more than fifteen, perhaps sixteen—at first delights him, filling him with wonder, then it perturbs him. What happened to their adults? Who cares for them, other than older children who they themselves should have caretakers…?

Is that why Jinx had been accepted? Old enough to provide guidance, young enough to be trusted?

As much as he is amazed by his new surroundings, his very presence is a cause for similar amazement among the children. Charon stoically ignores all the whispers and pointed fingers, though perhaps it is simply easier to show no emotion when one's features have sloughed away. For his part, Fawkes feels ill at ease, his sledgehammer trailing almost to the earth as he tries very hard to look as nonthreatening as possible. It does not work; when he looks up to examine the lights strung overhead, his gaze inadvertently locks with that of a small girl in pigtails. She immediately gives a startled cry, ducking behind a boy scarcely several years older than her. Fawkes immediately turns his attention to the floor in front of him, half-expecting a bullet from McCready for accidentally frightening the child.

"Keep it moving, mungo," the mayor barks behind him. "I saw that, but that's your freebie."

Fawkes has no intention of testing that.

The light is blinding when they finally emerge from the little underground town. Fawkes blinks, groaning as he shields his eyes. Blinking in the open air feels strangely oppressive, as if the very emptiness of the bleak sky might press down at any moment, crushing him to the earth under the sheer weight of unfathomable atmosphere. Dogmeat simply lolls his tongue, and Charon waits a few brief moments before tersely asking, "What are your plans, greenskin?"

"I…" Fawkes feels his mouth go dry, not having thought that far ahead. "I could help you rescue Jinx, if you like."

"No need. I'm not rescuing her."

Fawkes blinks, feeling his mouth swing open. "I thought you two were…?"

"She was my employer. Not my friend. And if the Enclave has taken her, they have gone where I cannot follow," the ghoul says impassively.

"But she… would she have rescued you?" Fawkes asks, unable to resist probing. It is like a wound he cannot resist picking, both afraid and determined to see how far the damage goes.

"Most likely. The world will be a poorer place for her absence, but I am not her." Despite the ghoul's stoic demeanor, Fawkes glimpses something—perhaps a twitch in those sunken eyes, or a tightening along the exposed muscle of his cheek—that implies there is something else there, something he isn't seeing. But he lacks the tools to understand, and just groans futilely.

"Fine. I will, then," he says, impulsively. Because it is a harsh world out there. Because a town full of abandoned children trusts Jinx. Because the world would be a poorer place without her, and even her own loyal traveling companion won't stage a rescue…

"Suicide mission. But if you have to, then here." The ghoul passes over several pouches of something light and rattling. When he opens one, curious, he finds an assortment of bottle caps. "Currency. A hundred caps per bag. You can get supplies. Plus here's some food. And a rifle. All I can spare on my way back to Underworld."

"Underworld?" Fawkes asks, still somewhat at a loss. Charon does not _seem_ suicidal, but perhaps this is some sort of strange grieving?

"Ghoul city. In the Museum of History—we could take you in a pinch as well, if you get tired of being shot at by smoothskins. I'm going to drop the dog off at Megaton." Briefly, Charon gives directions on how to reach the ghoul settlement, with instructions on wending through the metro system. "We've cleared out most of the feral ghouls and Raiders lurking in the area, but there are always new ones moving in."

Again, Fawkes reflects on this oddity—Jinx and Charon must have been clearing out hostile forces, keeping the roads and paths safe for travelers. The world would be poorer for her presence; they have an easy camaraderie in combat, familiar with the other's strengths and moving around one another, but they aren't friends…?

"Thank you," he remembers to say, dipping his head in gratitude. The lanky ghoul just gives a brief nod of acknowledgement before taking off with a casual, loping run to the east. The dog whines in confusion, looking between Fawkes and Charon, and then chases after Charon. Fawkes looks about, blinking in confusion at the assorted remnants of a long-abandoned theme park. It is dissonantly cheery in this grey, sunlit landscape.

Remembering Charon's suggestion, he starts moving to the north, and is rewarded with the sight of distant vertibirds. Encouraged, he starts taking off in a run. It feels good to finally have a chance to stretch his legs, his cell having offered limited exercise opportunities. He knows it must be the FEV in his system that makes this feel easy, the distance rapidly devoured under his muscular legs. He moves easily, freely, exulting in the luxury of movement.

Still, a vertibird moves more quickly than a meta human. Even when it vanishes to little more than a speck, he keeps its location fixed in his mind, moving towards it unrelentingly. The landscape conspires against him at times; he must circle around a copse of trees, or work his way around a cliff face. Once he sees the distant stinger of some sort of mutated scorpion, and instinct tells him to steer clear. Even with his sledgehammer and the hunting rifle Charon gave him, he does not wish to risk an encounter with the wildlife. Any spare energy should be spent on Jinx's kidnappers.

He continues doggedly on his path, eyes straining to glimpse another vertibird or, perhaps, a squad of Enclave soldiers. Judging from the combat he had heard from the vault entrance, they must be well-equipped; he is searching for figures in more power armor, but instead spots a small caravan of brahmin and traders. He slows, shifting course to approach them at walking speed with his hands cautiously extended in greeting. Aware that his appearance alone can be quite frightening, Fawkes tries to keep his arms away from his weapons.

"Hello there! Have you seen the Enclave pass through?" he shouts, trying to stay as comfortably far away as will allow for conversation.

The traders eye him warily, guards and merchants alike with their hands at their pistols or rifles, but one finally speaks.

"Yes. A vertibird was flying northwest. Spotted it about thirty, maybe forty minutes ago," a man with a coarse moustache offers. "What's it to you?"

"I am seeking a friend they took," Fawkes replies carefully, standing his ground.

"Who would be friends with a super mutant?" Despite the hostile edge to that question—and the fact that the man is still fingering his pistol—Fawkes thinks there is more curiosity than malice, so he answers.

"A young woman with red hair. Jinx—"

"Jinx? The _Wanderer_ needs help?" the man asks. His eyes are wide, face blanched. For a mad, frantic moment, Fawkes wonders if he should be reaching for his hammer, or simply trying to run for it, but then the man approaches him. In fact, several of the caravan-traders are talking amongst themselves, faces pale and drawn. "What happened to her?"

"I was told Enclave forces took her. I am trying to stage a rescue," Fawkes says, shifting uneasily at this unexpected response. Just who is Jinx?

"The fucking _Lone_ _Wanderer_," the man breathes. He immediately starts rummaging through his goods. "What do you need, greenie? I don't have the balls or the guns to take on the Enclave, but if you're ballsy enough to do it, I'm giving you my best."

"And mine. Her book, it helped my kids get three square meals a day…" a woman chimes in, her hair the color of straw and nearly as brittle.

"She rescued me from _super mutants_. Damn irony to give a mutant toys to go rescue _her_…" the man with the moustache mutters. "But here we are. I've got guns, I've got some food, I've got chems…"

Fawkes blinks, abruptly at a loss for words. "This is… most unexpected kindness. Thank you—"

"Go rescue the Wanderer, and it's all even," the mustached man growls. "She gave me my fucking life, _and_ enough bullets to survive long enough to get this job. What kind of guns do you shoot?"

"I have a rifle…" he says uncertainly.

"Against boys in power armor? Brahmin shit," the woman snorts. "Here. I got an old Gatling laser. Kind of shoddy, but if he'll repair it…"

"You fucking bet I will, and I'll throw in some electron charge packs."

Weak with both relief and confusion, Fawkes reaches for the pouches that Charon gave him. "Please. I know this is not enough, but…"

"It's dirt cheap for a Gatling laser, but we'll take it," the man with the moustache mutters, already tightening screws and testing parts on the boxy-looking gun. They strap the battery pack to Fawkes' back, adjusting the straps and fussing over him in a way that makes Fawkes understand that this is not for _him,_ but for Jinx-by-proxy. They might not like or trust a super mutant, but for Jinx…

She's saved lives. She's given hope.

She would have rescued him even without the GECK.

Even if this is just a suicide mission, him against the entirety of the Enclave base—she deserves it. And even if it's just him, the aid—caps, weapons, ammo—of those she's touched are rippling back, karma returning to its originator.


	4. Simple as Breathing

She is running out of Vault 87; much as she had fled Vault 101, there are only dark shadows and clawing uncertainties down here for her now. Her footsteps echo down the empty halls, a staccato rhythm in syncopation with her own heartbeat, never loud enough to drown out the screaming uncertainty now in her mind...

Too late, she realizes Dogmeat is growling. Charon slows his footfalls behind her, and then..

A white flash. She's down, hitting the floor with a sick thud. Enclave forces in power armor are closing in….

Dogmeat must have escaped. Or perhaps he's concussed too, and unable to defend her. Charon...? She does not know if he is similarly incapacitated, or perhaps ran away. Either way, she is alone.

Abandoned.

That's her last thought before slipping into the warm darkness.

* * *

"So. You're awake. Let's keep this nice and simple. You're going to tell me the code for that purifier, and you're going to tell me now.

She recognizes the voice, even filtered through the mush of her headache. It is a distinctive, oily voice with a Southern drawl. As she blinks her eyes open, she recognizes him. A familiar, hated face, a man with fleshy features and slicked down grey hair, as if covering a bald spot.

"This is some kind of mistake. You've got the wrong person," she croaks, mouth dry and foul. He _must_ have the wrong person. The person... the person she'd thought she was had been Charon's friend. This must be all some immense mistake.

"You really think I'm that stupid? I know you were there. I saw you." Threats, meaningless, empty—because of the knowledge in her head. She knows that much. Maybe if she plays along a bit, she'll see what happens. But there is no way she is going to cooperate with him; not with the man responsible for her father dying right in front of her.

"Why do you want this code so badly?" she asks, feeling her lips crack with the effort of speech.

He speaks slowly, arrogantly, as if lecturing a stupid child. It does little for her mood. "You know why. We can't start the purifier without it. The longer the purifier isn't running, the more people suffer. Now I'm running out of patience, son. I want that code, and I want it now."

Jinx fights to restrain a peal of completely inappropriate laughter, but it knifes up her throat, escaping in a hacking fit. She knows her hairstyle is hardly ladylike, but really? 'Son'? She's not even wearing the bulky power armor anymore—but at least she's in her skivvies, thank goodness for small mercies—and even if she barely fits an A-cup, she's still a _girl_, dammit…

This will make a funny story to tell… well, not Charon. Maybe Butch, if she ever gets to see him again. Or Nova; Nova would laugh right along.

Autumn does not find her coughs amusing though, so she wheezes her way towards a reply.

"The code is 7-0-4." The lie comes easily from her cracked lips. Fourth of July— Independence Day. Is today Charon's independence, free of her and the contract? Is he celebrating her death even now?

"Very well. We'll just verify that."

He speaks to a speaker device, entering the code, attempting to confirm it—and with grim satisfaction Jinx hears that they lost 'another' man. At least one more Enclave soldier is dead because of her, even if she didn't get to pull the trigger.

"Why must you make things difficult? Maybe I should start shooting. How much blood do you think you can afford to lose before you tell me what I want to know?"

Briefly, Jinx considers the calculations. From her father's medical books ('_Father, father—everything comes down to daddy issues, doesn't it?_' a mocking voice whispers in her head, but she can't listen to her demons right now) she knows a person could lose approximately one-third, perhaps up to forty percent of their blood volume before death. The average body contains between eight and ten pints of blood, and she is on the small side, so perhaps she could lose—

"Colonel, I have need of you!" The plummy voice on the intercom interrupts her impromptu calculations and calls away the guard dog. He abandons her with a growl, leaving her with the disconcerting voice on the speaker.

"Alone at last! I do apologize for Colonel Autumn's attitude. He has been under a great deal of stress. I'm sure you know who I am; surely you have heard my radio broadcasts?" Jinx does not reply, which is just as well; the voice does not bother waiting for a response. "I must have a word with you, my dear. I am sure we have a few things to discuss. Your possessions are in the locker, and I will unlock the way. I will unlock your restraints as well. I'll be waiting for you in my office. Please don't tarry."

Rubbing her wrists, Jinx allows herself a quick swig from one of her carefully hoarded rations of purified water. Just enough to wet her throat and lips, though she vows to take advantage of her 'host's' hospitality and grab as much water as she can. Surely an advanced technological fortress such as this should have _plenty_ of clean water. She dresses quickly, already missing the familiar help of Charon buckling her in, reaching that last armor lock that she always has difficulty with…

Well, she can always suit up on her own again. Or go back to wearing Talon combat gear.

With that cheerful thought, she leaves her small cell.

However, after being accosted by a guard, Jinx quickly realizes who the real authority is. And she already royally pissed him off.

She does not _mean_ it to become a murderous rampage, not really—but on her own in a hostile facility, most of the guards firing at her on sight, even the scientists running around with laser pistols… her reflexes kick in. She might not be as good a shot as Charon, but she can easily hack terminals and computers, disabling robots and turning turret systems against their owners. Her plasma rifle _(thank you, Harkness, for the lovely gift_) is in significantly better condition than most of the soldiers' she runs into, and truth be told… it is somewhat cathartic. Even when she hisses and nearly screams, feeling the flesh singe under the heavy metal armor. Even when she forces a jab of Med-X into herself (and here, she remembers Charon lecturing her on the dangers of addiction, telling her to lay off the Mentats… the Mentats that make everything so clear and crisp, she bet she would never have mistaken their contract for 'friendship' if she was still chewing Mentats), huddled against a bed in an out of the way set of sleeping quarters, it feels better than that shock of Charon insisting that he is nobody's errand boy, because she had never _meant_ to treat him that way…

And then a disgruntling encounter with Anna Holt… and much against her wishes, Jinx lets her go. And loots Col Autumn's room too, slashing the bed and throwing ripped containers of snack cakes and Cram everywhere. Pouring Nuka Cola and water over the resulting mess. Just to piss him off. She'd like to say it was part of a bigger plan, to keep him upset and off-balance— but truth be told, it's personal now. Both for killing her father, and for forcing her to... what? Realize Charon had never been a friend?

She can't blame Autumn for that, much as she'd like to. That was solely her own stupid trusting fault.

The rest of the escape passes in a mad haze; she really should be more shocked to discover President Eve is only a computer, really should be throwing away that little vial of FEV as soon as she gets the chance, and really should be caring more about the layout of Raven Rock, reporting whatever scant information she can to the Brotherhood... but Jinx is flying free, soaring off her disappointment and childish desire for vengeance. To hurt the world as badly as she feels hurt.

When she finally emerges into the sunlight, blinking—so like her own frantic escape from Vault 101—she finds an unfamiliar but welcome sight.

Fawkes. Who'd have thought it?

He is blasting away with a Gatling laser, the red energy beams sizzling away at more Enclave troops. She taps her helmet, calling out to let him know it's her, and not another Enclave goon in Tesla armor.

"Fawkes!"

"My friend! I've found you at last!" he calls, grinning ear to ear. Even with the strangeness of his green features, it is a beautiful sight. _Friendship_. He is the first in the Wasteland to announce it, and go seeking to help _her_, and not the other way around?

Charon is nowhere to be found. Not that she was expecting him.

"I knew you had survived, and I had hoped to assist in your rescue to repay my debt to you," the super mutant explains, oblivious to her churning emotions. Not that much is visible through her 'borrowed' Tesla helmet.

"Looks like you've got a new toy, huh?" she finally asks, dimly aware she needs to keep up one end of the conversation.

"Yes… and a most fascinating one at that. This technology is amazing. Imagine the evil that can be eliminated with such tools!" She nearly blinks back tears at his words. He is still idealistic, as only a good person can be in this crazy world. To see a weapon, and think of the bad things that could be destroyed with it... not for personal gain or defense, but to eliminate evil as a goal in itself?

"What the hell are you doing out here?" Hopefully he'll mistake the choked sound for disbelief.

"I heard of your capture, and a little cleverness allowed me to follow your captors. I only wish I could have arrived sooner to aid in your rescue. As I owe you my freedom, I felt it was only fair that I return the favor. After all..." Here, his voice catches, bluster and cheer unable to mask the hollowness of his words. "I know no-one else in this world."

There is no need to think over the implicit offer. She has known too much loneliness.

"I could always use a hand. Would you like to follow me?"

"My friend, I would be honored to follow a hero such as yourself. Shall we go?"

Easy as that. Simple as breathing, difficult as living.

She has a friend. Not an employee.


	5. Doing What's Right

He is irrationally disappointed that she has already freed herself, but objectively, he knows it shouldn't surprise him—while the others may have called her 'the Wanderer,' he also has heard the title '_Lone_ Wanderer.' Even if she travels (or traveled, considering Charon's rather blasé attitude to her capture) with Charon, Charon is not the one people remember.

It is her.

But still, she is weak and weary—even with the advanced armor providing additional support he can tell she is shaky. She no longer moves with the quick, purposeful strides that she had used in scouting the Vault, but with a slight tremor to her legs, each step taking a little longer than it should.

"Do you need assistance?" he shouts, fighting to make himself be heard over the noise of the self-destructing base. She shakes her head, features masked under the helmet, but then nearly slips down the embankment. Her helmet masks the sound of her swearing, but he recognizes the way her fist slaps the ground in impotent rage.

"Sh… Just need to hole up and rest," she mumbles. "I talked the computer into blowing up the base. The Enclave will be too busy dealing with that to chase us… if we just can make it to a friendly camp, or even just an abandoned house…" Her speech slurs about the edges, sentences and words trailing into one another.

"Do you want me to carry you?"

"No. Gotta be able to fight, just in case. I got… I got stimpaks. We just need to make it to a safe place…" She talks just a little too quickly now, words rattling through the mouthpiece. "Look," she insists, pointing to her Pip-Boy. He does not understand the interface until she points. "No red dots that direction. No hostiles. We can make it. Even if we just hole up in an old bus for a little while, that's all I need."

So he fights the urge to protect her, to carry her like a child—because she insists. It would be patronizing and disrespectful, even if he does it with the best of intentions. Perhaps especially if done with the best of intentions.

Instead, he sweeps ahead, keeping an eye out for hostiles and offering her an occasional hand whenever her steps get too stumbling. While the occasional rifle shot goes their way, the majority of the Enclave forces are too busy trying to regain control of Raven Rock to pay attention to a super mutant fleeing the scene, or the unusually small figure in power armor.

The battery pack on his back is a comforting weight, one that emblemizes both defense—truly, this marvel is a _much_ better weapon than either the sledge or the hunting rifle—and scientific reason turned to practical application. Even if war never changes, at least he can feel more civilized than simply smashing away at whatever foes cross their path.

There is a fenced enclosure on a rise ahead, and she surges toward it with renewed vigor. Unfortunately, it turns out to be an ancient power station, the fenced enclosure having no true cover or habitable dwellings. She mutters disappointedly under her breath, then, as if operating out of reflex, examines the skeletal remains inside. Fawkes briefly wonders at her scavenging nature, but reflects that from what he has seen, tools and equipment are in short supply. While perhaps a bit macabre, these habits have served her well.

She pulls a dark cola bottle from a toolbox and flips through a battered copy of Dean's Electronics. Removing her helmet to reveal a grin, she pops the top off the soda, carefully stowing the cap away in one pocket of her backpack. "Ah. Refreshment, and a little light reading. What more can a girl ask for? Look, this place isn't ideal, but at least we can watch for trouble. I could use a breather, and get the stimpak going. Want a Nuka?"

The word evokes faint memories of sweetness, so he nods. She pulls another bottle from her immense pack, popping the top before passing it. He sips slowly, savoring the sugary fizz on his tongue.

"I'm going to need a little help getting out of my gear," she adds, looking somewhat embarrassed. "Usually Charon helps me with the heavy armor, but…"

"I understand," Fawkes says quietly, trying to minimize the awkwardness of the situation. This is the first time she mentioned her companion's name, and he wonders if she knows…

She must. Despite the worried slant of her eyebrows and the way she bites her lip, there is reluctance as she asks, "Charon. Is he…? Did he make it out all right? What about Dogmeat?"

Pausing, he tries to think of the best way to answer that both gently and truthfully. "Charon and Dogmeat are unharmed, last I saw. He provided me some equipment and left for Underworld. He said he would drop Dogmeat off in Megaton."

"Well, at least they're both okay," she mumbles. "Look, I can get the arms and legs, but there's a buckle to the back… Ah, there," she sighs with relief as Fawkes unfastens her out of the armor. She wears a thin layer of dark under-armor beneath the metal plates, but does not need any more help there. She rolls down the waistband almost to her thighs, and he averts his eyes. Even if she does not seem to care, _he_ does. He hears a soft groan of relief as she injects the stimpak.

"Good. Better already," she sighs. "Just give me ten, fifteen minutes to let it get circulating, and we'll be good. I figure we can schlep back to… hm. Maybe Big Town. Closest friendly settlement I can think of, and then it's just a short ways to Megaton. I want to get Dogmeat back."

He risks looking back at her. The flesh is already knitting together, new skin pink and shiny and healing to scar-less perfection before his very eyes. He also cannot help noticing older scars, some that had to have healed without the aid of stimpaks—and will remain forever imbedded on her flesh, faint reminders of past encounters.

She catches him looking, and her lips quirk up in a half-smile. "Flesh heals. Easiest kind of scars to fix."

"I meant no disrespect," he demurs, turning away again. "You are obviously a well-respected warrior, and have collected the trophies to match."

"Scars as trophies, huh? I like that, in a sort of barbaric way. Makes me feel like I crawled out of an old comic book," she chuckles.

He is unsure what to say to that, so tries a different tactic. They are still too new to each other to be completely comfortable in silence, and he has far too many questions about this strange world he has found himself in. Bits of news filtered through the radio or chatter amongst his jailors does not constitute a working knowledge of current events. "Who exactly are the Enclave, and why were you so important to them?"

"As far as I can figure, they are a fascist military regime who operates under the assumption that they are the rightful remnants of the American government," she responds flippantly, eyes closed as she leans her head back. He is struck by the smoothness of her throat, the tender unmarked skin oddly vulnerable in contrast to her scars and wild hairstyle. "And forget any random Wastelanders or mutants. We're not 'American' enough for them. And I just discovered that their so-called President Eden is a giant computer."

She recites it so easily he wants to believe her, but hesitates. "A computer?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye," Jinx chants, tapping an index finger against her closed eyelid. "Crazy, I know, but I met him. It. Good thing my knack with machines worked on him too."

"Why would they elect a computer as a political leader, even a figurehead?"

"Good question." She opens her eyes now, crinkling her eyebrows as she gives an elaborate shrug. "I am guessing because they could program a completely soothing and wholesome-sounding personality to be a figurehead, without worrying about all that messy free will and actual _decision_ making. Then again, what measure is a non-human?" she states rhetorically, heedless of the sudden lurch in Fawkes' chest. "Any sufficiently advanced artificial intelligence, capable of self-determination and a moral code, qualifies as human in _my_ books."

_No wonder she accepted me so easily_, he reflects, both perplexed and reassured by her depth of consideration on the topic.

"Surely they did not seek to capture you just for your dangerously liberal views," he says quietly, attempting to match her light tone. Coming from his guttural throat—still unused to practicing speech—the effect is somewhat lost.

She smiles anyway. "Oh, they wanted me for my dangerous knowledge instead. My father…" Her voice trails off, and she looks dangerously like a lost girl, eyes wide and staring off into space. Swallowing hard, she continues. "My father was working on a project to purify water for the Wasteland. The Enclave decided such a wonderful thing couldn't _possibly_ be controlled by a bunch of Wasteland savages, so… they did what all fascist regimes do. They took it by force." She smiles bleakly, the expression utterly incongruous with her words. "I had to watch my father die. But the joke's on them—_they_ don't know the code to get the purifier up and running, even if they have the GECK."

Jinx giggles now, the sound sharp-edged and brittle. He notices a tremor in her hands now, palms shaking as she stashes the now-empty stimpak in her backpack.

"I… oh no. I'm so sorry, Fawkes. I'm not normally this depressing," she apologizes, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes and hastily rising to her feet. "I just… you know, I had this big plan to impress you as my new friend. You know, witty jokes. Clever references to dead authors and historical figures, all kinds of neat stuff. Not daddy issues." Her laughter sounds false even to Fawkes' unpracticed ears, and when she beams at him, it looks like a carefully constructed mask. "I'm sorry. I'll be better company from now on, I promise."

"You are excellent company," he says slowly, helping her back into her armor. "I simply overstepped my bounds."

"No such thing. I've got all the personal space of an amorous molerat," Jinx snorts. "I talk too much, I step too close, I bother people. If you can put up with my chatter for more than a week, you're a saint."

He would like to think she is merely playing at self-deprecation, but her inward slump looks too genuine. While he has read much on his terminal—learning much of history, philosophy, literature—not a single data file has prepared him for comforting another, so when she starts moving, he eagerly follows her lead.

She sets a brisk pace—not as fast as Fawkes can go, but she moves with easy familiarity of her suit's capabilities and how to glide over rough terrain. Her Pip-Boy is a useful tool, pointing her unerringly towards previously explored territory and warning of hostile entities. At one point, she pauses, looking at a distant satellite array, and murmurs, "I wonder…?"

"What is on your mind?"

"Unfriendlies up in that tower, but I bet I could get a better bearing on where we are from up there. Do you mind terribly if we attack some Enclave soldiers?" she asks, voice deceptively mild. "I can always patch up my suit, and the armor sells for a good price… if you don't mind carrying it, at least," she adds sheepishly. "Even with the motors, I'm almost at my weight limit. The downside of being a scrounger, I guess."

"It would be an honor to rid the world of their evil," he says firmly. He is rewarded with a cheery thumbs up gesture before they move into position. Picking a position from a nearby hill, Jinx manages to snipe the soldier standing guard at the top of the dish, a lucky shot that blows his head to a pile of goo. Fawkes is able to eliminate another guard at the base of the tower, and then the alarms are off, more soldiers boiling out and shouting.

It is still relatively easy shooting; there are no more than half a dozen guards, and he and Jinx shift positions to cover a good swathe of the battlefield between them. For all that she prefers a stealthy approach, she makes a decent show of shooting in a straight-up battle. Even in her heavy armor, she enjoys strafing runs, dashing from one piece of cover to another to minimize the damage she at last they enter the tower, mopping up the remnants, she—as warned—looks for anything remotely valuable, scavenging the best suit of power armor and acquiring a science textbook.

"It appears rare to find an intact book out in the Wastes," he comments.

She laughs, the tones echoing discordantly through her helmet. "Oh, you don't know the half of it. I'm a pretty omnivorous reader, just because I have to be—but instructional books like these are a real blessing, believe me. Plus the Brotherhood pays a good fee for any intact Prewar books for their library."

Then, of course, she has to explain the library to him, and the Brotherhood—an interesting conversation that takes them for several miles more into the Wasteland on their way to Big Town.

"So your father was part of the Brotherhood?" he asks, attempting to determine her relationship to this organization.

She goes quiet for a moment, and he fears having said the wrong thing. "No. My father was… his own man, I think. His goals were aligned with the Brotherhood's—and so are mine, generally speaking—but they dream a little small. He dreamt a bit too big. And I'm just stuck in the middle with my own big dreams," she sighs. "I do not agree with everything the Brotherhood does—but _do_ think they dream too small. They have the largest, best-armed force in the Capital Wasteland, they have an immense stronghold full of healthy men and women who aren't _starving_ to death, they have…" Her voice chokes, whether with rage or sorrow impossible to determine. "They have _everything_ they could do to make the world a better place, even without the purifier. And don't get me wrong—!" she hastens to add, holding up her hand in a halting gesture. "They do a fantastic job out there, keeping the feral ghouls and hostile super mutants out of the DC area, but they are limited by their stupid hierarchy and chain of command. I mean, they could _eliminate_ Evergreen Mills, they could completely _destroy_ Paradise Falls if they wanted to, but instead…"

And here her voice cracks, volume rising as she punches the air in frustration. Fawkes gets the uneasy feeling this is a lecture that's been brewing for a while, bottled up under the weight of responsibility and her desire to be 'good company.'

"Instead, a teenage girl with a dog and a stalwart ghoul manservant clean up more of the bad guys then _all_ their boys and girls in power armor! I was scrounging around in beat-up old Raider gear and a lousy hunting rifle, and I _still_ had Three Dog howling about me more than the entire Brotherhood combined! At first I thought it was kind of sweet, you know, but then I realized it's because they don't _do_ half as much as they should!"

A broken sigh bordering on a sob escapes from under her helmet, and she kicks the ground restlessly, sending a pebble skittering over the dirt.

"Fawkes, I… I've got a confession to make here. And you're free to tell me to shut up, or move on because you've had enough and realized I'm too crazy to tag around with," she says quickly, hopping over a large rock. The action looks so innocent—young, more appropriate to a child than a woman in power armor—he is momentarily taken aback, almost missing her next words. She speaks rapidly, the words pouring out in a mad, guilty rush. "I'm not always proud of the things I do. The way I hesitate over what _needs_ to be done. There's a… a whole list of regrets I already have. Like not taking on Evergreen Mills, or Paradise Falls… or buying Gob's freedom…"

These are names without meaning to him, but he nods resolutely. If she needs a confessor, then so be it—for all the acclaim she has won amongst the people in the Wasteland, she still has her own private demons. Or not so private; her self-comparison to an amorous molerat may be more apt than he first suspected. Though he rather doubts Charon would have provided much support for these guilt-wracked confessions, if she was prone to making them.

"…if I ever hesitate to do what's right, I want you to call me on it. I'm going to clean up the Mill and Paradise Falls as well—and I know it might be suicidal. But you were already willing to take on the Enclave for a stupid little girl," she adds, and even through the helmet, he can tell she is grinning, tears probably smeared down her cheeks.

"I am, and I would follow you on any noble quest. Even if we tilt at windmills, it is better to fail than to live in the comfortable security of mediocrity," he murmurs. "I do not think I need fear calling you to task for wrong-doing, though."

"I don't do wrong. I just don't do enough _right_," she emphasizes. "There is a difference. There's right, there's wrong, and then… well, there's what's left. If you pardon the pun." She kicks another unoffending stone out of her path.

"'All that it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing,'" he quotes, adjusting the bulky power armor over one shoulder. While he's certain it weighs half as much as Jinx does, it's not truly heavy for _him_—just bulky.

"Oh, yes. Much more succinct than my bout of verbal diarrhea," the young woman laughs disparagingly. "I think I even recognize that one—Burke, right? Edmund Burke? No relation to _Mister_ Burke," she adds with a high-pitched giggle at some private reference.

"You do know your history," Fawkes says approvingly, pleasantly surprised.

She shrugs, the shoulders of her power armor clanking slightly. "I told you—I know my dead authors and historical figures. I caught your Don Quixote too."

This would be a perfect opportunity to discuss the works he's read, or critique the political systems that have both thrived and failed throughout history, but he hesitates. He is still so new to conversing, and she is still in a grey fugue of guilt and regret. Any word out of place could be a potential landmine, and they are both so unfamiliar with one another…

Each word could build a bridge, or destroy the fragile thread of what they already have.

So he remains silent.

She does not speak for the rest of the journey.


	6. Wasteland Folktales

They press on, not even stopping to eat. When hungry, she chews on strips of dried dog meat, passing the leathery protein to Fawkes so they can both eat while walking. They share a bottle of water between them, the liquid warm and faintly metallic on the back of his tongue. While he is no stranger to deprivation, the lukewarm water feels all the more refreshing for the fact that it sluices through the dry dust coating the back of his throat, the inescapable grit of the Wasteland floating through the air and his nostrils. He fancies even this sensation, uncomfortable as it may be, is all the sweeter for being borne in freedom. For that, he would endure far worse than stale-tasting water.

Finally, Fawkes spots a walled off settlement in the distance, surrounded by a few abandoned homes and with a small bridge of over an impromptu dry moat. The ramshackle walls are of rusting steel and scavenged wood, bound together with rope, wire, and hope. Perhaps not the most promising of places, but it is still a welcome shelter with night falling. The sky is blue and purple about the edges as the last rays of the sun bleed out about the edges. His first sunset; he wishes they had time to pause so he can admire it more thoroughly, but Jinx has paused, placing her hand on his arm. When he turns to look at her, she removes her helmet. Biting her lip, she gives him a sidelong glance, eyebrows furrowed. "Fawkes… please don't take this the wrong way, but make sure you're _right_ beside me as we go in," she says slowly, pale eyes pleading. "They've had some bad experiences with super mutants, and it's dark, they might be startled…"

"I prefer not to be fired at myself," he agrees, catching on quickly. "In that case, perhaps you should lead, and I shall follow."

"No. I don't want you walking behind me," she snaps, then colors as she realizes just how that could be interpreted. He waits patiently as she gulps the air, cheeks puffing indignantly while she scrambles to rearrange the words. "Dammit, that's not how I meant it. I mean you are my _equal_ and companion. I don't want you to feel like you ever have to shuffle along at my heels. Unless I'm disarming mines or something like that." The last is added as almost an afterthought, a stickling attention to detail.

He elects not to point out that she has been literally leading the way for the entirety of their journey. Still, he can appreciate the sentiment, warmth swelling through his chest. "Very well. I shall approach alongside you."

"Good." She flashes a grin at him, hands twitching into a double thumbs-up. Her palms shake slightly—lingering withdrawal from whatever chem addiction she has, or more anxiety over the outcome of this little social experiment? Laying one hand at the crook of his arm, she waves the way forward, giggling as she nearly drops her helmet during this attempt at gallantry. "Come now, Fawkes. Big Town awaits!"

"So it does," he murmurs, walking with her. It is not a comfortable activity, even with her helpfully accelerating her steps and him deliberately slowing his. Their gaits are wrong, he is far too tall and she too short, their bodies too close, her armor-clad hip bumping into his thigh and then she starts laughing, helpless and howling at the moon, and he can't help chuckling along even as he wonders just how narrow is the edge between laughter and tears…

"Hey! Jinx! That… that mutant's your friend?" a hesitant voice calls, a young man—barely out of boyhood himself—staring at them over the barrel of a hesitantly-raised rifle. Even with the semi-opaque helmet masking his features, he is too wide-eyed and just plain _young_ to look like any sort of adult by Fawkes' admittedly limited reckoning.

"He's my friend, Dusty! And his name is Fawkes!" Jinx calls back, giving his arm one last squeeze before walking across the bridge. She is still beaming, arms spread wide while her laughter bubbles over her lips. "I promise, I don't hold hands with hostiles!"

"Jinx?" gasps a warm voice, and then a dark-skinned woman—or girl, looking even younger than Jinx, another girl-woman forced to take responsibilities beyond her age—runs down the street, away from a small group huddled at a campfire. She is dressed entirely in red, her spectacles glinting over Jinx's head as she embraces the little wanderer. Fawkes is momentarily taken aback, having forgotten how small Jinx is compared to other humans, let alone himself. "Jinx! Three Dog's been quiet about you for a bit, so we were starting to wonder…"

"Nah, nah. Nothing to worry about," Jinx chuckles, and for a moment, Fawkes thinks he can see her barriers rising again, bright laughter and self-deprecation patching over her insecurities. "Just vault-crawling again. Nothing new or exciting."

"Who is your friend?" the woman asks, releasing Jinx and looking Fawkes over curiously. He recognizes her hesitation and the fear in her eyes as she unconsciously takes a step back… but she then takes two deliberate steps forward. Out of civility, or perhaps unwavering faith in Jinx.

"My name is Fawkes," he says slowly, dipping his head in an abbreviated bow. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Her eyebrows shoot up, but then she smiles again. It is forced about the edges, her body angled in unconscious preparation for flight, but at least it is an attempt at hospitality. "Wonderful! I feel the same way about any friends of friends. I'm Red, and those there are Shorty, Timebomb, and Flash," she adds, pointing to the three young men near the fire by way of introduction. Fawkes notes that Shorty is—unsurprisingly—the shortest, a dark-haired man with a stiff haircut and an almost permanent scowl on his face. He still stands taller than Jinx, confirmed when she stands next to him to give a friendly fist-bump. Timebomb is lankier, with a vaguely sleepy expression as he gives a cautious wave. Flash is by far the friendliest, beaming bright as the fire shining off his blonde hair.

"Is Kimba cooking tonight?" Jinx asks. When Shorty confirms it, her cheeks split with a grin. "Great! I have some food to chip in, if she doesn't mind…"

Red leads her to one of the houses, presumably to drop off the food and help in the kitchen. Uncertain of whether to follow her or stay with the young men, Fawkes' hesitation makes his decision by proxy. He remains in place, standing uncomfortably while the trio continues staring at him. Finally he decides to sit down, leaning against the wooden wall of one of the houses.

Getting closer to their level appears to break the ice.

For a given value of 'icebreaker,' anyway.

"How long have you been traveling with Jinx?" Flash asks, hooking his thumbs in his waistband as he eyes Fawkes with undisguised curiosity.

"Only for the past day," the mutant confesses, placing his hands on his knees and pulling inward in an effort to appear smaller. "She freed me from the more brutal of my kind."

"She does a lot of rescue work," Shorty mutters. "Saved me from being the main ingredient in a super mutant chili cook-off," he adds, glaring at Fawkes with outright hostility. "I swear, if I wake up and see you standing over me with a knife, I'm gonna—"

"Shorty, relax," Timebomb chides, putting one hand on his arm to restrain him. "Jinx is a good person. If she trusts him, that's good enough for me."

Still glowering at Fawkes, Shorty mutters, "I'm still not sleeping in the same room as it."

Wistfully, Fawkes reflects this type of reception would be so much worse if the small woman weren't present to vouch for him. It had been sheer luck that the wandering traders were willing to speak with him, much less offer him aid. Joining forces with Jinx—at first an impulsive act of loneliness hoping for pity—was his only viable option for passing through human settlements.

Timebomb just snorts, giving Fawkes a helpless shrug. "That's your problem then. What happened to the ghoul anyway?" he asks, curious.

"He is watching Dogmeat," Fawkes says diplomatically. The answer does not get more scrutiny than that, allowing him to sidestep the messy tangle of Jinx's personal business.

There is more awkward silence, and eventually the three young men start a conversation that does not include Fawkes. He simply sits quietly, watching them until he realizes it makes Shorty uneasy, then averts his gaze to the side, watching the fire with fascination. Warming his massive hands against the orange glow, he comforts himself with the fact that at least simple pleasures—warmth, light—do not require companionship. Companionship is entirely different from company.

Eventually, Jinx emerges from the house, her Pip-Boy lit up and blaring a cheery Prewar tune as she jiggles a heavy metal pot. Pale steam and the savory smell of cooked meat rises from it, making Fawkes' stomach rumble. She has changed out of her power armor, now clad in a dingy Wasteland settler's outfit that sags on her scant form. She looks much smaller and more vulnerable without the shell of her armor, like a new-hatched chick too young to yet fly. Red follows, carrying another pot, while a slender woman with large eyes and dark hair carries a stack of chipped plates and utensils. Last is a man with tired eyes, the oldest present despite looking barely into his mid-twenties. He yawns, arms stretching overhead, but then gulps air as he sees Fawkes.

Immediately, Jinx murmurs, "Be cool, Pappy." She emphasizes this with a gentle hip-check, catching him mid-thigh and causing him to stumble.

"Ah… damn," the man coughs, sputtering up the air he just swallowed. "Sorry. Last time I saw a mutant, he was trying to smash my head in," he adds weakly.

"I understand," Fawkes demurs, wondering how many times he will have to repeat that phrase.

"Molerat stew tonight, plus apples for dessert," the new woman murmurs quietly. "I hope you enjoy it." She does not quite manage making eye contact, instead drifting her gaze somewhat past Fawkes' ear.

Jinx chuckles, setting the pot down and ladling out a generous portion for herself. "Kimba's selling herself short. She's a great cook." Plopping down cross-legged by the fire, she gives a happy laugh, the sound floating through the night like childhood melody. "We have good company, we have dinner music, and I've got some things to trade."

Digging into the stew, Fawkes quickly realizes that 'trade' is a euphemism for 'give,' as Jinx donates handguns, a hunting rifle, ammo, and a bottle of Rad-X to the small community. She claims it is fair trade for a night's lodging and dinner (though Red quickly exclaims they _must_ eat breakfast too), but even Fawkes' inexperienced eye recognizes that the value of her items far outweighs the value of food and shelter. Especially since he has no doubt she could simply pry her way into one of the abandoned houses just outside of Big Town's enclosure.

"I've also got some new books…" she adds. "Couldn't find any more medical journals, sorry, but I got a copy of Dean's Electronics."

Kimba swallows daintily, holding up a hand to cover her mouth as she responds. "Bittercup found a book while scavving, and wanted us to give it to you." She bites her lower lip, hesitant and hopeful in equal parts. "She thought you might like it."

Jinx cheerily accepts the trade, carefully opening the tattered hardcover with a dramatic inhalation. "Mm, just love that old-book smell. So much more…" Here she waggles her eyebrows devilishly, giving a wink so broad and ludicrous that any lurid intent is wholly stripped away. "…_sensual _than a dry data file."

"You're weird," Shorty mutters, but he's smiling at least, fierce frown momentarily at bay.

"Yeah, but you already knew that," she chuckles. "Ooh, Homer's Odyssey! This was one of my favorites in the vault!"

She grew up in a vault as well? Fawkes files that tidbit away for future reference, realizing it's another point of common ground.

Red laughs, the sound bubbling over the background lyrics of a song about someone called Butcher Pete. "I thought you'd like it. It's about a wanderer, just like you."

"Thank you. I'm… this means a lot to me," Jinx murmurs, tracing one finger over the dark ink. She looks up, smiling—and her eyes are wide, crinkled with mirth, but with that wet gleam that he is starting to learn signifies grief held barely in check—and laughs. "I love stories. Almost as much as music. There's power in them, you know?"

"Why 'almost' as much?" Flash asks, picking up a last chunk of molerat with his fingers and popping it into his mouth.

"Music is joy for the sake of joy," she explains, tapping her feet and miming a shuffling dance by way of demonstration. "I mean, even with a sad song, music is just… it just lifts you up and cleans you out. It goes straight to the gut. A story tries to stick with you, all barbs and hooks. The stories that stick usually have lessons attached. Sometimes unpleasant ones." She grimaces at that, tongue poking out in mock disgust.

Fawkes nods, immediately grasping her implication. "A good story has themes that resonate."

Pappy blinks at him in surprise, but Jinx snaps her fingers with a delighted laugh. "Exactly!"

"Well, hey. I like stories," Red says, smiling. "Maybe you tell us one you heard growing up."

"Uh… sure," Jinx replies, flipping off the radio on her Pip-Boy. She sucks her cheeks in, rocking back and forth from her cross-legged sitting position. "Okay. So this is… I'm going to tell you straight up, this is a good story, but I _hated_ it because it was the Overseer's favorite. It's about Icarus." Clearing her throat self-consciously, she launches into the tale.

"So… once upon a time, in an ancient land called Greece—the same place that the Odyssey came from— there lived an inventor named Daedalus and his son, Icarus. Daedalus was greatly prized by the king, since he created so many wonderful items that it made his kingdom proud. Unfortunately, Daedalus angered the king, so he and his son were trapped inside a giant labyrinth…" she begins, the words flowing more smoothly once she gets past the first awkward lines. Unfortunately, this is the point that Flash interrupts.

"What's a labyrinth?" he asks.

"It's like a giant maze," Red quickly explains. Fawkes reflects that 'maze' is not a terribly accurate description either, since a labyrinth only has one path to follow, but pedantic nit-picking will get them nowhere.

Jinx just nods agreement, letting Flash sit back with a pleased smile of understanding.

"So… they were in the labyrinth. But because of Daedalus' great service to the king before, the king let him keep his workshop and tools inside the labyrinth. So Daedalus and his son started planning their escape. Taking inspiration from the birds he saw flying overhead, Daedalus crafted giant wings of wax and feathers for him and Icarus. They were soon able to escape the labyrinth."

She swallows, her lips briefly thinning. Unpleasant memories lurk beneath the surface, but she quickly glosses them over with narrative flow. "But because the wings were of wax, they couldn't fly too high. Daedalus warned Icarus that if he went too close to the sun, his wings would melt, and he would die. Icarus promised to obey, but while flying…" Jinx mimes flapping her hands, fluttering them about in demonstration of flight. Then she chuckles, the serious story-telling persona abruptly dropped as she grins, embracing the happy fantasy of absolute freedom. "Icarus realized this was _amazing_. He was free as a bird, able to go wherever he wanted. The breeze in his hair, the sun on his face—such a change from the gloomy labyrinth. So in his excitement, he flew higher and higher."

From labyrinths to Vaults to nightmares hidden beneath soft-spoken words, Fawkes tracks the thread of the story. He has read the original tale—or at least a translation of it—and knows what is coming next. Red and Kimba seem to recognize the shaping of a tragedy, both of them huddled inward. Only Flash looks completely unaware of Icarus' impending doom, leaning forward with a bright smile and expecting Icarus to escape his fate.

"…so he flew too close to the sun, and his wings started melting. He plummeted downward, and was swallowed by the sea. Daedalus did not even have a body to mourn, and spent the rest of his days grieving his lost son," she finishes flatly, clapping her hand once to signal the conclusion of her tale.

Timebomb shivers.

"Hey, what was the point of that?" Shorty demands, setting his elbows on his knees. "I mean, he just dies? What kind of story is that?"

"One without a happy ending," Jinx sighs, scraping a dented spoon across the bottom of her empty plate. "One that teaches little vault children not to dream too big, or reach for the sky. Not to question our beloved Overseer, and stay trapped in the labyrinth." Abruptly, she scowls, pointing her spoon at Shorty's furious face. "At least, that's what the Overseer always _wanted_ us to think. At least Icarus died free, dammit. He got to feel the sun and wind before he died."

"But he still died," Timebomb whispers. "You're not…"

She blinks, cheeks flushing as she realizes how revealing that spirited defense of the legend was, but Jinx is too cagy to allow herself to remain embarrassed long. Setting her plate down, she holds her hands up in surrender as she chuckles. "Relax, Timebomb. It's just… it's just a story."

Looking at her, a child among children telling campfire stories, Fawkes' feels his heart ache.It isa story with nightmares, and only thinly-woven laughter to keep the darkness at bay.

"Sometimes we hold on to the hard stories because they tell us things," Kimba murmurs. "We have one in Little Lamplight, Hansel and Gretel…"

"Oh yeah? Tell me that one!" Jinx exclaims eagerly, quick to divert attention from her personal history.

Kimba blushes, eyes turning down as she protests, "Maybe Red should tell it. Her name is…"

"No, you tell it best," Red hastens to assure her. Timebomb and Flash start urging Kimba on, until finally the girl just sighs, squaring her shoulders.

"Okay. So… Long ago, in the before-times—before the war, that is—" she adds quickly, cheeks turning even redder at that childish lapse. "There was a man and woman, and they had two children. The boy was named Hansel, and the girl was named Gretel. This was before the bombs fell and the world went completely to hell, but life was still tough. They were running out of food, and so the man and woman decided they didn't want to take care of their children anymore."

Fawkes nods, listening intently. This is another tale he recognizes, though he suspects that it has been altered by the oral tradition of the Wasteland.

"So the man and woman left their children at the edge of an evil forest. It was dark and filled with monsters and ghosts, but they lied to Hansel and Gretel and told them they'd be safe as long as they stuck to the path, and they would find food and a safe place. So Hansel and Gretel—trusting their parents—walked into the forest. They held each other's hands and stayed on the path, even when the wolves howled all around them. They heard the howls coming closer…" Kimba continues, lowering her voice spookily. The rest of the boys and girls of Big Town lean in with anticipation, even though they must have heard this story already. Jinx herself is hugging her knees with childish excitement.

Gratified by her audience's interest, Kimba smiles shyly and starts getting more immersed in her own story, the cadence of her voice shifting to an oratorical tone. "But they stayed on the path. They thought they'd be safe, even when they saw the wolves come closer. Even when the dim moonlight shone off their fangs, they thought they'd be safe." She swallows, hands tightening on her thighs. "But then Gretel tripped over something on the path. Looking down, they saw skeletons— two small figures. Another little boy and girl sent to die by their parents. But the two skeletons were clutching weapons. A knife and a bat, so Gretel grabbed the knife and Hansel grabbed the bat. When the wolves came closer, and the first one lunged at them, they were ready."

Kimba does not make expressive gestures like Jinx did, but her eyes light up with fierce joy as she describes what happens next. "Hansel swung with his bat, beating the wolf across the skull and smashing its brains to pulp. Gretel got the next one, her knife biting its flesh. And so they kept fighting, until all the wolves were dead. Bloodied but not broken, they decided to name their weapons. Gretel named her knife Biter, and Hansel named his bat Beater. And now that they knew the path wasn't safe, they decided to wander off. After all, it's not like they could go home again."

Another story with more hidden undercurrents, nightmares lurking beneath the words. Fawkes hears Kimba's voice catch on the last sentence, and watches her blink tears away. Still, she resolutely continues the tale.

"So they ventured deeper into the forest, off the path and away from the lies. They were lost and hungry, but at least were together. Eventually, they started smelling wonderful things. Sweets and candy and cake, all warm and wonderful on the breeze. Following their noses, they found a giant house built of gingerbread, with spun-sugar windows and sweet rolls lining the way to the door. They started eating away, filling their empty bellies for the first time in ages. But then they heard a voice calling to them."

Kimba pinches her face in, pitching her voice to a warbly, cracked old-lady tone, the words pouring out like broken chimes. "'Children! Why don't you come in? There are even better things inside to eat.' Hansel didn't want to go in, because they had already been betrayed once by grown-ups, but Gretel wanted to have a family again, so she convinced him to go. Once inside, the sweet old lady turned out to be an evil witch, who locked Hansel in a cage and chained Gretel to the stove. She planned on cooking and eating them, but Gretel figured out how to trick her. When the witch asked if the oven was hot enough yet, Gretel said she couldn't tell. So the witch bent over to check, and Gretel shoved her in, locking the oven shut. Now with the witch dead, she freed Hansel, and they had the house all to themselves."

This would be the point that Fawkes expects a 'and then they lived happily ever after,' but Kimba just smiles sadly. "This one doesn't have a real happy ending either, because eventually, the bombs fell on them too."

"Brahmin shit!" Shorty exclaims, punching the ground in frustration. "You _know_ that's not how it ends!"

"Well… yeah. But let's face it, there is no 'happily ever after' forever," Kimba says defensively. "I mean, the bombs fell, and then all the other children—the ones whose parents either died or left them alone in the radiation—started wandering through the forest too. More of them smelled the gingerbread and sweets, so they started going through the forest and found the house. Hansel and Gretel took them in and started helping them, so the children made their own family that way. Even better and stronger than the ones that had left them behind."

She sighs, staring into the fire. There is a long pause before Jinx gently pushes, "That's not the end, is it?"

"No," the storyteller whispers regretfully.

Shorty just groans, rolling his eyes. "That's where _I_ end it."

"And that's why Kimba's telling the story, not you," Pappy snaps. "It's more real that way."

"It's still a story! At least it's better than hearing them all grow up!" Shorty retorts, crossing his arms peevishly.

Red frowns, pointing first at Shorty, then Pappy. "Both of you, hush now. Kimba's telling it, so she'll finish it the way she wants."

Heartened by Red's support, Kimba hurries to tell the rest. "But Hansel and Gretel couldn't stop themselves from growing older, and were terrified of becoming just like their parents and the witch and all the other people who forgot what it meant to be a child. At first they thought maybe they could fight it by being good to everyone, always promising to share and feed any of the new children that came in. But Hansel started getting greedy and selfish, and started having… hungers."

The way Kimba runs her tongue over her teeth leaves little imagination as to what Hansel hungered for.

"When Gretel caught him about to shove one of the little ones into the oven—just like she had to shove the witch so long ago—she realized the monster he had become, and went after him with Biter. When at last he fell and his blood stained her hands, she decided she could not stay there any longer. She gave the children instructions on how to behave, rules for welcoming new family members, and said goodbye before leaving for one last journey into the woods. She wore a white dress and cloak, deciding to kill wolves until she died, trying to make the route to the house as safe as possible."

Reaching out to finger the edge of Red's sleeve, her lips turn up in a shy smile. "With Biter, she hacked and slashed at the wolves until her white dress and cloak were all red with blood. Her red clothes were so dark that when she started bleeding herself, injured by the wolves, it wasn't even visible. Her red cloak hid all her injuries, making it look to the wolves like they couldn't hurt her. So Gretel became the Lady in Red, another spirit wandering the woods. But because she died fighting monsters, deliberately fighting them to help other people instead of just defending herself, she was able to stay pure to her purpose even after her death. She kept the woods safe for… for the first time since the bombs fell, and so the children were able to live happily ever after in their little cottage."

"Until they get older and get run out, at least," Shorty adds bitterly. He scowls, locking his dark gaze with Jinx. "That's why when I tell the story, I always end it earlier. Otherwise it just becomes another pointless, stupid story about people dying."

"You are a romantic at heart," the red-haired woman says lightly, reaching out to pat his shoulder. Shorty flushes, his ears turning pink.

"Gretel becoming the Lady in Red was one of the reasons red became my favorite color," Red admits. "I'm not _the_ Lady in Red, but at least I'm still _a_ lady in red. I think of it as a good-luck color."

Jinx chuckles, brushing her fingers over her scarlet mop. "Good thing I dyed this, then. I can use all the luck I can get."

"Still got my 8-ball?" Timebomb asks shyly. At Jinx's quick nod, he smiles. When she starts reaching into her pack for proof, he chuckles, waving his hand dismissively. "I believe you. I hope it's working."

There are more stories there, more history between her and the people of this town—and Fawkes resolves to ask her about it, once they are on the road again. He also reflects on the story Kimba told; he easily recognizes the roots of the original Hansel and Gretel story, of course, and imagines the Lady in Red was incorporated as a garbled version of Little Red Riding Hood. The named weapons sound as if they came from a fantasy novel he vaguely recalls, but the rest—especially the running theme of deceitful adults and corruption coming with age—appear to resonate from a personal cultural mythos rather than distortion of Prewar tales.

"That was a powerful story, Kimba. Thanks for sharing it. I've never heard it before," Jinx speaks, raising a Nuka Cola bottle in toast. By unspoken consensus, they turn to lighter topics for the rest of the evening. Timebomb tells a silly story about a molerat that tricks a Deathclaw into throwing it down a maintenance tunnel, and Jinx sings a little ditty about dish and spoon running off to get married.

From there, it is a natural progression to turning the radio back on. Kimba claps along while Jinx snaps her fingers, managing to make a clean snapping sound with her right hand but miserably failing several times with her left. Teasing her, Timebomb gets right up in her face to snap both of _his_ hands in front of her nose, but she retaliates by grabbing his wrists and spinning him into a whirling dance that she claims she had to learn during gym class. When Timebomb inevitably trips over his own feet, Flash laughs until he starts choking, so Shorty has to pound his back.

Fawkes simply observes, chuckling to himself at their enthusiasm. 'Joy for the sake of joy' is rare enough that he treasures watching them, their daily worries melting away under the power of music, dance—and Jinx. She is a beacon of joy in her own right, twirling with a happiness so fierce he imagines it's deliberate, a way to fight back against the daily uncertainties and troubles of her own life.

His reverie is interrupted as the song ends and a raucous voice takes over the radio broadcast.

"Thanks for listening, chiiill-dren! This is Three Dog, _OWWWWWW_! And you're listening to Galaxy News Radio! We're Radio Free Wasteland! And we're here... for you!" the man exclaims. "Time for a very important public service announcement! For all you guys and gals tempted by the thought of scavving in the downtown D.C. ruins, here's a tip... You see, children, the Frankensteins might violently and horrifically rip you to shreds. But only if you're lucky..."

With an icy chill, Fawkes realizes this is a real threat to this little community. They are back to huddled silence, watching him and failing to meet his eyes. Jinx immediately squeezes next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

The broadcaster continues, "According to most of our reports on the super mutants, they actually prefer capturing their victims and hauling them off to God knows where. Consider yourself officially warned. And now, back to music."

_Vault 87,_ he dimly realizes. _This is a report on the super mutants who have been capturing the Wasteland denizens. And the people of this town have already experienced that_…

He feels achingly alone, guilty by association without knowing how to remedy it.

It takes a few moments before he realizes Jinx is pulling on his hands, the radio crooning, "_I'm as corny as Kansas in August, I'm as normal as blueberry pie. No more a smart little girl with no heart, I have found me a wonderful guy…"_

"Come on, Fawkes. Dance with me," she whispers in his ear, a tuft of her hair tickling his scalp. So he gets up, moving slowly as she leads him through a slow dance. Her deliberate effort at inclusion brings a lump to his throat, forcing him to remain silent as she casually murmurs, "This is one of my favorite songs, even if it's kind of sappy. One of my other favorites is 'Papa Loves Mambo,' but I haven't been able to find a record for that yet. When I do, I plan on giving it to Three Dog. His songs are kind of limited at the moment."

He quickly realizes this is a love song, but Jinx is no more intimate with him than she was with Timebomb—amorous molerat declarations aside—and he decides not to read into it.

When the song comes to an end, she gives him one last squeeze before helping Pappy and Shorty clean away the plates. The gentle strains of 'Let's Go Sunning' carry through Big Town as they get ready for the night. Jinx gets a mattress in the common house, though Flash and Red have to pull together a few spares to make an impromptu bed for Fawkes. True to his word, Shorty sleeps in another building entirely, but at least does not again voice his refusal to sleep in the same room as Fawkes..

The dilapidated mattresses are only marginally more comfortable than sleeping on the bare floor of his cell, but the sound of Jinx breathing only a few feet over becomes a soothing lullaby. When he falls asleep, he does not dread the morning.


	7. Breakfast Domesticity

Fawkes is the first to wake, the dim sunlight lancing through the slats in the windows far more startling than the unchanging light cycles of Vault 87. Looking about, he realizes the children are still sleeping—but Jinx's eyes flick open as he sits up. Soon she is sitting up as well, changing back into her black under-armor (and again, Fawkes averts his eyes, unnerved by Jinx's casual disregard for any sort of body taboo) but leaving her power armor neatly arrayed on the floor. As she tiptoes out of the house, he follows her.

The door creaks shut behind them, and Jinx releases a loud exhale. "I figured we'd hang around for breakfast, then keep going to Megaton."

Fawkes nods, not trusting his voice to not wake those still slumbering.

"So… how did your first day go?" she asks. She twists side to side, reaching her arms overhead in a set of stretching exercises. Free of the straight-backed lines of her armor, her form is lithe and supple, bending and swaying as if caught in an unseen breeze.

Trying to keep his volume low, he replies, "It was quite fascinating. Thank you for agreeing to take me in your travels."

"A good friend is hard to find." Despite the banality of that statement, her eyes crinkle with delight. "Besides, my first day out of the vault was… pretty scary. Even with friendly people, it's just a lot out there. The big ol' lightbulb in the sky." She mimes flipping a switch at the sun, prompting a startled laugh that turns into a cough as Fawkes tries to suppress it. "The constant dust. The grit. Oh, and the _smell_. Believe me, I would— well, not kill, maybe. But perhaps _maim_ for some of the scented soap we used to have in 101…"

He decides this is the best opening he is going to get, so he asks, "I understand you were raised in a Vault?"

"Oh, yes. Vault 101 was an okay place to live, but… well, it had its flaws." She chews on the inside of her cheek, giving him a thoughtful sidelong glance. "I don't know how to really talk about it without sounding either like a nostalgic kid or some sort of bitter reject—especially since I'm both—but then again, you know that living in a vault isn't all cupcakes and Nukas."

"I may have inhabited a cell, but that is scarcely the same as growing up in a Vault community," he says gently, trying to keep it from too reproachful.

She still gets the not-too-subtle hint and sighs, pushing her hands up in surrender. "All right, not the best joke. They can't all be gems. Or even just shiny rocks." Fawkes can barely follow her convoluted sense of humor, but she isn't waiting for a laugh. "Okay. So… I grew up with it. I don't know what else to say. I took so much of it for granted—safe place, food, daily schedule—that it felt normal. It's not until I got out and got a fresh look at the world that I started seeing the cracks. Or maybe just because I got a bit older, so I think more critically about some things."

Jinx continues speaking as she moves into the next stretch in her routine. Bracing one palm against a wall, she pulls her leg behind her with the other hand. "All of the Vaults are… experiments, on some level or another. I mean, you cannot have so many people living together—cramped quarters, limited supplies, even with hydroponics, equipment that can only go so long, shortages both real and artificial—without getting some _interesting_ social dynamics going on." The slight hiss on 'interesting' combined with a fleeting grimace illustrates exactly what she thought of that. "Our Overseer held absolute power, and even though it was never technically meant to become a dynasty… historically, power seems to have gone along familial lines. And no matter how well-intentioned individuals within the system might be, the structure itself is flawed."

Peeking up at him, her lips twist into a wry grin. "Of course, pointing out we were hardly preserving the American ideal of democracy wasn't really a way to make friends. Not that our Overseer was _bad_, exactly…" Her voice trails off, eyes distant as she switches legs, adjusting her position against the wall. "He was… I don't even know anymore. Growing up, I thought he was distant, cold but fair. He had to be, to be in charge, right? But when my father left, and his best friend died, and all the guards went berserk and the roaches were crawling in…"

Her posture shifts, feet braced against the earth as she mimes hefting something over her shoulder. A weapon, judging from the set of her features. She swings once, twice, each time with a brisk huff of air from her lips. "Amata—his daughter, my best friend—gave me a pistol. She thought I might need to shoot my way out to escape. I gave it back to her, just relying on my old slugger to knock out anyone in my way. World gone crazy or not, I still grew up with them all. I didn't want to _kill_ anyone."

There is a tremor on her lower lip, restless energy coursing through her limbs as she attempts to shake it off. "I don't know how successful I was. I just… hit, ran, tried to reach the door. Smashed roaches on the way out. Even saved a couple of people—Butch's mama, Officer Kendall—but… I'll always be guilty of failing to do more. But that's what happens when you lock the monsters in for centuries, right? Just festering in the labyrinth…"

_And Daedalus could only support himself with those wings, and was unable to save his son…_ the story whispers through Fawkes, restraining an involuntary shiver. "You did what you could, I am sure."

"And it's never enough," she mutters distractedly, staring at the horizon longingly. "I am… very glad you chose to join me. Thank you. Again. I keep thinking I can't thank you enough."

He shakes his head, demurring, "I have done little enough to be worthy of your thanks."

She chuckles, combing her fingers through her hair in a distracted gesture. "We'll agree to disagree on that then." Patting her hand against his arm, they both turn as they hear the door opening behind them. Kimba blinks at them in the sunlight, mortification coloring her cheeks dark rose.

"I am so sorry! I was supposed to wake up and make breakfast first, but—"

"No worries," Jinx cuts in smoothly. "I was hoping to help out anyway."

Taking his cue from the prompt offer, Fawkes nods as well. "I would offer my aid as well, if you would have me. I have little experience cooking, but I can at least follow your orders." The young woman is still staring up at him, mouth slightly open as her blush darkens. Instinctively, he draws himself down, slumping his shoulders and trying to make himself seem smaller. Idly, he realizes he is doing the exact opposite of Jinx—she tends to walk straight and proud, chin held up as if to emphasize the scant height she possesses. Where she tries to make herself larger, letting her presence match her personality, he is attempting to diminish himself to seem less threatening.

It seems to work. Or at least Kimba recognizes the feeble attempt, smiling weakly as she protests, "But you two are our _guests_…"

"And you are our host. Please, let us help out. We are already eating so much of your food anyway," Jinx laughs, rubbing a small and astonishingly warm hand over Fawkes' bare abdomen. He grunts at the unexpected touch, schooling his face to stillness as her palm tickles against his belly. "Fawkes here still needs to grow up big and strong like me!"

Kimba fails to find the humor in that declaration, her forced chuckle seeming more politeness than anything else. "Okay then. We have brahmin milk and grain for oatmeal, plus dried mutfruit. If you can stir the pot…"

"Pot-stirrer extraordinaire, that's me!" the redhead declares, flashing a thumbs-up with both hands.

"I've also got some smoked molerat and potatoes, so I could make a sort of hash if you don't mind chopping them…" Kimba continues, still looking incredulously up at Fawkes. He just smiles benignly, keeping his lips closed. Shorty's story about a 'super mutant chili cook-off' just echoes a bit too ominously for him to want to bare teeth.

"I would be honored to assist in making this fine meal," he rumbles, dipping his head in a respectful nod.

That finally provokes a smile, Kimba covering the flash of white teeth almost shyly with one hand. "I only wish the others would be so honored to help clean up afterward."

Jinx immediately begins, "Well, we could…" before Kimba shakes her head briskly, tapping Jinx's shoulder and firmly steering her towards the kitchen. Fawkes follows quietly, bemused by how quickly Kimba heads off his companion's altruistic impulse.

"_You_ have more important things to do than clean our dishes," the Big Town woman says sternly. "Thank you for the help, but believe it or not, we can occasionally do some things without you watching over us all the time." Her features are soft, the last sentence so quietly grateful that it removes all the sting of the words. "Every day we spend above ground—every day that Red walks around that clinic, that Timebomb's breathing and hunting, even the times that Shorty's picking fights—is already a gift."

For the first time since Fawkes has met her—an admittedly brief span of hours—he sees Jinx speechless, her mouth opening and closing without words escaping. The girl-woman swallows hard, eyes shining, and abruptly turns to fill a small pot with water. "I… You're welcome, Kimba. I really care about you guys."

"And you had no reason to when you first met us," the chef replies, pulling out a cutting board and knife for Fawkes. She takes a sack of potatoes, scrubbing them as best she can with limited water and a towel already faintly grimy. As she finishes each spud, she passes it to the super mutant. The task is unfamiliar, but a knife is a knife—and as he starts slicing in, some long-forgotten muscle memory takes over, cutting the potatoes into neat cubes.

"I know I'm the quiet one," Kimba murmurs, "But I watch. I listen. Whenever you come by to visit or we hear Three Dog let us know you're doing all right—it means a lot. So keep doing whatever big, important things you have to do. We're learning to fend for ourselves, because _you_ helped us do it."

That solemn declaration sits in long silence, all the inhabitants of the small kitchen musing over it in their own ways.

Jinx coughs awkwardly. "You know, I think this is the most I've ever heard you say at one time."

"Usually because you're too busy talking," the other woman says, smiling gently as she finishes the last of the scrubbing. She starts cutting the molerat meat, the simple rhythm of her knife slicing against the wooden cutting board almost hypnotic.

Pouring the oats into the now-boiling water, Jinx gives a self-deprecating laugh. "I'd say something, but I'm afraid it would only prove you right."

"You already did," Kimba says serenely, dimples forming in her cheeks. That prompts another burst of laughter from Jinx, and even Fawkes can't keep himself from smiling, scraping the potatoes into a large pile at the center of a plate. This moment is… domestic. He can't find any other words for it, and this quiet shared camaraderie, even just listening to the women talk, feels like a precious thing.

Eventually Kimba shoos them away from their stations, saying they have done enough, but Jinx stays in the kitchen, making idle chatter and grabbing utensils as Kimba needs them. He observes that she is not quite familiar enough to find all the items right away, but at least has a general idea of where they are, with occasional reminders from Kimba to look on the other side, or that such-and-such has been moved. The scent of warm oats and sizzling hash permeates the air, and thinks back to the relentless diet of cram and half-charred, half-raw hunks of meat that had been his mainstay during captivity.

The Capital Wasteland has many wonders to offer.

Once they finally eat breakfast, it is a relatively restrained affair. There is no dancing or story-telling, but Shorty endures some good-natured ribbing over some sort of noise he made in his sleep. Shorty simply glares at Timebomb, stuffing his mouth full of meat and refusing to dignify it with a response. Jinx washes her food down with a few sips of clean water before armoring up. Once again, Fawkes helps her, noting how it always seems to be one particular buckle that gives her problems. She gives a smile of gratitude before fitting the helmet over her head, walking out with one last goodbye to the boys and girls of Big Town.


	8. Lotsa Caps

Breakfast still sits warm in his belly as they move across the Wastes, Jinx moving with renewed energy and vitality. He suspects the simple human contact, surrounded by people who care for her, has done more for her than even the good meal and night's rest. She no longer seems so dangerously off-kilter, her words smoother and without the manic bite of her pained declarations immediately after his failed rescue attempt.

She hums as they walk, the sound making strange reverberations through her helmet. Despite their trek of the previous day, she remains energetic as ever, hopping over small stones in the path. They follow the remnants of some ancient roadway, cracked gray slabs crumbling to broken islands jutting at uneven angles from the earth below.

"Tell me of Megaton," he requests, not entirely certain what to expect of this new destination.

Jinx stops skipping, instead bouncing in a loose-limbed stride that fails to still the jangling of her armor. "It's one of the bigger cities out in the Capital Wasteland. Nice place; a lot of traders pass through, plus it's got a decent restaurant, a pretty nice general store—Moira might get a kick out of meeting you—a doctor, an honest-to-goodness sheriff to keep order…" Her voice trails off, tone flavored with distaste as she adds, "And a saloon owned by a certain piece of work called Colin Moriarty."

Knowing she will keep talking if given the opportunity, Fawkes remains silent.

"He… this is one of the things I told you about. I need to _do_ good, not just _not_ do bad," she mutters, the words tumbling out awkwardly, like sharp-edged stones pouring from a jar. "There's a man named Gob that he keeps working for him. Practically a slave; slavery's not allowed in Megaton, but he claims he bought his contract off some slavers in order to use him as an indentured servant. You know, release him _after_ he somehow scrapes up enough money to pay him back, all while he deducts his food and board… Beats him too, and I can only do so much when I'm not there. So… I need to fix it. I need to buy his contract."

Fawkes nods, asking, "How much do you expect you will need?"

"…a lot." Her sigh whistles softly through the mouthpiece. "I bought Charon's contract for..." Her voice nearly breaks, and she gives a rasping cough before continuing. "Two thousand caps, and that cleaned me out. But I have things to sell and favors to call in. I'm not leaving Gob there another day." There is steel in her voice, determination strengthening the soft tone.

Uneasily, Fawkes thinks of the rattling bags Charon had so freely given him. He knows little of this strange Wasteland currency, but reflects on how his magnificent Gatling laser had been practically a gift from those traveling merchants. Even so… if four hundred caps and good will had been sufficient to purchase such a weapon, what does that say for Charon's price?

Heedless of his internal thoughts, she blithely continues, "I should help Nova too, but she's not hurting the way Gob is. Maybe later—she is another 'employee' at the saloon. She's paying off a debt as well, but she doesn't have to deal with nearly as much abuse. Not that forced prostitution is necessarily better, even if it doesn't leave the same kind of marks—" she adds, causing Fawkes to choke at her very casualness, "—but I have to do what I can."

"If they are both indentured servants," Fawkes says, voice slow as he tries to think of how to best contribute, "Moriarty—if he is a true businessman—should keep some sort of contract on hand, including their length of service and the fee required for early termination."

"Good point." She turns to face him, and he imagines her grinning sharp-toothed and feral beneath the helmet. "I think I'll bring that up to Simms."

The thought gives her renewed vigor, pumping her fist in the air and giving an odd half-hop that lets her click her heels together. The whole thing looks so ludicrous in the oversized power armor that Fawkes cannot hold back a short chuckle.

The journey to Megaton takes significantly less time than their sojourn from Raven Rock to Big Town, and when Fawkes spies the walls in the distance, Jinx confirms that it's their destination. "It appears much larger and better-organized than Big Town," he comments, glimpsing sentries patrolling the battlements.

Jinx nods, removing her helmet and fanning herself with one hand. "It is. C'mon now, I bet they've spotted us already."

Whether or not they already have, she waves cheerily at the figures in the distance. Walking closer to the settlement, Fawkes feels a tremble of awe at how well humanity has managed to rebuild itself after the war. While this may not compare favorably to the descriptions he has read of prewar metropolises, this is still a far cry from the shambled, scavenged defenses of Big Town. A metal robot and two human guards greet them, the guards keeping a wary eye on Fawkes and holding their rifles at the ready. Even when Jinx falls into animated discussion with one of them, the other never fully lowers his weapon. Fawkes feels the itch of phantom bullets striking home, thinking that if he were to provide the slightest provocation—opening his mouth too widely perhaps, or moving too swiftly—he would feel his flesh ripped asunder. But finally, after Jinx wheedles, laughs, even dances in place in some sort of ludicrous display that finally causes the guard to give an uneasy laugh, they are granted permission to pass through.

"It's amazing that people trust you enough not to attack me," Fawkes mutters, skin crawling as he feels (no, that would imply doubt; he _knows_) their weapons are aimed at his back.

Jinx stops abruptly, wheeling to face him. Her face is set in a scowl, the expression so uncharacteristic that it's as if someone set a stage-mask over her features. "If anyone tries to attack you, I'm punching their lights out." The furious blaze in her eyes implies this is no figure of speech. But then she forces a chuckle, the glare vanishing like a nightmare in the sun.

Rather than dwell on her abrupt transition, her kaleidoscopic moods somehow even more disturbing than his unwelcome reception, he stares about at this new town. "What a magnificent settlement," he murmurs in awe. He feels like a sightseer, craning his neck and twisting to take it all in. The metal ramps wend about in open-air paths that are dizzying after the familiar confines of Vault 87, his stomach lurching at the unexpected thought of being not only above ground, but _above_ the ground, with only a thin barrier between him and empty air…

Unaware of his sudden wave of vertigo, Jinx cheerily bumps her shoulder against him as his pace slows through the gates. "Keep saying things like that, and you'll make more friends than you'll know what to do with."

She only chuckles at his strained, "I certainly hope so."

There are more people than in Big Town, and even though Jinx smiles and nods at a good number of them, there is less feeling of camaraderie, the community less tightly knit. For all that Jinx may dwell here, she is less obviously welcome, more recognized as an outsider. They receive more than a few strange looks as he follows behind her—and he still remembers to bend slightly, to keep his limbs loose and unthreatening—but none challenge him.

A dark-skinned woman wearing a broad-brimmed hat tied under her chin runs up the steep hill towards them. "You're back! I just wanted to give you a little something—from all of us, as thanks for what you're doing out there," the woman exclaims, pressing a bottle of Nuka Cola to Jinx's hand, so firmly that Jinx can only refuse it by flat out dropping it.

"Thanks, Deb. I really appreciate it," she responds, smiling warmly. "You know you can always just drop it off with Moira too, though. You don't have to run up to me each time…"

"Hey, I like greeting you," Deb says cheekily, lips stretched into a warm smile as she pats Jinx on the back. "Who's your friend here?" Her gaze travels up Fawkes' form, taking in his green skin, his height, and the nightmare of his face. He is keenly aware of how monstrous and oversized he must appear, especially next to the diminutive Jinx, and tries bowing from the waist in greeting. She does not flinch, but moves only slightly closer to Jinx.

"I am Fawkes." The words still feel rusty, but at least the past few days of use have provided some much-needed smoothness.

"I'm Deborah. Deb for short." She does not actually offer her hand to shake, even though he sees her arm twitch. There are still limits, it appears. But at least she speaks willingly enough to him, her eyes meeting his rather than dropping. "Welcome to Megaton."

Jinx bites her lip, practically dancing in place before asking the question that's weighing heavy on her mind. "By the way, have you seen Dogmeat? Charon said he was dropping him off…"

"Oh, yes! Little Maggie and Harden have been making quite a fuss over him. I bet they're spoiling your dog rotten right now."

The wanderer's relief is palpable, previously unrecognized tension draining from her eyes and the corners of her mouth. "Great! I'll go look for them right now. Thanks again for the Nuka," she adds, raising the bottle in mock toast.

Fawkes follows her to one of the larger homes near the gate, sees her fumbling at the door with a small key, and trails behind her as she enters the building. A Mister Handy model robot greets her with a tinny voice, causing her to laugh delightedly. "Oh, Wadsworth, how I missed you. Let us elope and run away together," she croons, stashing her miscellaneous gear into various lockers.

"That would be most inappropriate considering our professional relationship. However, I do believe my humor array has recharged itself if you would enjoy a joke," the robot butler responds primly.

As Wadsworth launches into an anecdote about cannibals and clowns, Jinx turns to Fawkes with an elaborate shrug. "I need to sell some of the better gear, go pick up Dogmeat, free Gob… and get you a proper bed. I have a room upstairs, but you are…" Her voice trails off as she bites her lip awkwardly, miming her hands to the side, then upward.

"I am too big," he finishes for her.

"Mhm. So I have more purchases to make. At least I can get changed out of this tin can before heading to Crater Supply. I've got to do one quick thing on my own, but after that you can join me. I mean— you don't have to come with me," she adds quickly. "Whatever you want to do. You can rest here, you can go eat, whatever you want. I mean, you can tag along if you want, but you are under no obligation whatsoever."

_And how many times did you tell Charon that_? Fawkes wonders, both uneasy and amused by how insistent she is. Rather than voice that, he only speaks, "I would follow you, if you have no objections."

"Great!" Her face splits into a wide grin, brighter and warmer than sunshine. "If you can just get that one buckle again…" She turns, letting him get the obstinate piece of her armor, then squirms out of the bulky pieces. Once free, she skips up the stairs two at a time, already pulling up her undershirt. Fawkes studies the wall carefully until she returns, fully clothed and now dressed in some sort of vaguely mercenary-looking outfit, leather and cloth reinforced with metal patches. It looks quite competent, even if it lacks the protection of her power armor.

"Jinx, I must ask a question," he says uneasily, keeping his gaze averted.

"Fire away."

"Do all vault-dwellers…" He feels his cheeks grow heated, and idly wonders what sort of color he must be turning. Unaltered humans turn various shades of red or pink when embarrassed, but under his yellow-green pigment… perhaps he looks orange? Even purple? He is distracting himself from the matter at hand. "Do all vault-dwellers lack nudity taboos? Or is it just yourself?" That last question comes out far too accusingly, and he cringes at how his words linger in the air.

Fortunately, she does not seem offended. "Why does it bother you?" she counters, one eyebrow cocked. There is no challenge to her voice, merely a sort of confused intellectual curiosity.

The unexpected response makes him flounder for words, his jaw hanging slack before he swallows, gathering his thoughts. "Normal social cues dictate that men and women remain fully—or at least mostly—clothed while in one another's company."

"But why? Your Vault suit's ragged and hanging open anyway," she argues, patting her chest to emphasize the point. Thankfully, she does not actually open her shirt in a more vivid demonstration. "And even if I were topless, I guarantee there are men out there with bigger tits than I have. I don't have breasts; I have _nipples with ambition._" She pronounces that with mock stentorian tones, voice dropping and hands waving as if announcing the end of days.

He chokes at that, and only the evil glint of her smirk keeps him grounded. At least she appears aware of how ridiculous she is being.

"Sexual dimorphism means that certain traits are considered especially appealing…" he begins, but she interrupts with a raucous burst of laughter.

"Really? Are you going to try and pop out an evolutionary psychology argument on me?" she asks playfully, slapping his hand in mock chiding. "You realize how ridiculous that is? Trying to claim that so many learned behaviors have some kind of biological basis, and it just so conveniently happens to _affirm_ our own biases… I don't think that holds any sort of merit." Her eyes are dangerous with delight, though he cannot determine whether it's at his discomfort or the chance to trot out academic phrases she has been unable to exercise in quite a while.

He rubs his wrist slowly, more out of habit than any residual sting from her light strike. "Very well. I cannot seem to adequately explain _why_ it bothers me, but it does," he says morosely. "Is that acceptable?"

She bites her lip, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. "Then that's all you needed to say." Her voice is soft and surprisingly gentle. "I'll be honest, it just doesn't bother me because… well, I'm weird. I'd walk around naked all day if I could, in the privacy of this house."

"Please don't."

She has to bite her lip even harder to keep from laughing at his aggrieved indignation, crossing her arms in front of her as her shoulders quake with restrained mirth. "It's just that growing up in a vault, tight quarters, always having to be good and under wraps… well, this is freedom. Maybe a strange sort of freedom, but I don't _have_ to listen to—to what people expect of me." Her mouth quirks upward, lips pulled taut under the edge of her teeth in a smile that would be innocently endearing if it weren't for the words coming out of it. "You know, when I first got this house, and it was just me and Wadsworth… I took off my vault suit and just stood there on the stairs in my skivvies. Just thinking 'wow. I can _do_ this.' Because there was no one else around." The smile broadens, her arms hugging about herself more tightly. "Took me a full five minutes before I worked up the nerve to take my skivvies off too. Just because I decided that if I want to be naked in my own home, who gives a damn?"

The rhetorical question goes unanswered, as Fawkes once again finds himself dumbfounded beyond speech.

"It never bothered Charon. Or at least—" She pauses, her shrug just a little too casual. "Well. He never said it bothered him. Not that I was ever trying to flaunt it or anything, since I at least wore my underwear around him, but my skivvies keep me more covered than some of the raider outfits out there."

"You are a very strange woman," Fawkes finally says after much deliberation.

A grin scythes across her face. "I am a very strange _person_. I'm actually surprised it bothers you so much. I guess I just assumed the FEV had erased some of that cultural programming."

"Why would it have done that?" he asks, his turn to be curious.

She flushes, coughing into a closed fist. With carefully clinical tones, she begins, "I took the liberty of reading some of the notes on the FEV's subject alteration. With the loss of secondary sexual characteristics and the sterility that seems to have ensued, I just assumed…"

"Did you perhaps think I was a woman?" Fawkes does not feel indignant; rather, surprised. He feels less insulted and more curious about how Jinx could look at him—large, muscled, with a voice far deeper than any they have met—and not assume him to be masculine.

Jinx dismisses that thought with a wave of her hand. "Nah. Not that it's my business whatever's in your pants, but I just pinged you as male. I guess I just thought most of the desires or social constructs would fade with the loss of any obvious sexual determinants." Her air of scientific authority dissolves in a puddle of giggles. "So much for that thought."

"I may have forgotten my human past, but the socialization appears to remain intact," he feels the urge to point out. He cannot even address the 'desires' portion of her statement, not having had the opportunity to pursue any sort of inklings in that direction. Even if his equipment still functions, being alternately locked in and beaten has suppressed any inclination to experiment. "I remembered the layout of the vault, so I see no reason that the rest would not lie dormant."

"Fair enough. I am truly sorry for discomforting you though." Her apologetic smile does seem sincere, and she squeezes his arm briefly. Taking this as a small triumph, he elects not to ask her about her far too personal boundaries. Then again, he has seen her similarly physical with others, from Red's enthusiastic hug to her wild dancing last night in Big Town. Perhaps it is just another symptom of her strangeness. "If I bother you or make you feel uncomfortable in any sort of way, you can always speak up. I'm… well…"

"An overly amorous molerat," he deadpans, earning a startled laugh as his reward.

"What's this? You do make jokes after all!"

He chuckles, cracking his knuckles. "Only once per day. And we should make the most of those errands you mentioned."

"Sure. Just… gotta do one thing on my own. Lady business," she adds with a playful wink, tapping a finger to her lips as she palms something from one of the lockers. "Make yourself at home. Snacks are in the fridge." With that, she darts out the door.

Left alone save for the whirring butler, Fawkes elects to investigate the small bookshelf on the first floor. She has already placed her new copy of Homer's _Odyssey_ on it, next to a dog-eared medical journal and some well-used tapes labeled as 'Project Purity' journals. One is set aside from the others, a spidery penciled script on the label reading 'Better Days.' It appears the most loved of the set, so frequently handled that dust has not had the chance to accumulate on or around it. He wonders what is recorded on that one; perhaps music? Without a player of his own though, he cannot test that hypothesis.

His attention turns to the next few books on the shelf; in all honesty, the only other two books on the shelf. A half-burnt and torn cover obscures the title, but flipping through it he realizes it is a book of poetry by a gentleman named Robert Frost. The fragile paper feels strange under his fingers, and he carefully shuts it and sets it aside for fear of ruining the volume. The other book is slim, the spine nearly broken but pages still intact. Faded lettering reads '_Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus'_ and smaller font elaborates that it is authored by one Mary Shelley. Remembering Three Dog's ill-timed public service announcement, Fawkes feels little urge to read it at this time.

So he helps himself to the refrigerator after all, pulling out a bottle of Nuka Cola and popping the cap off against the edge of a table. Drinking slowly, he opens one of the lockers by the small kitchen. She had told him to make himself at home, after all.

The locker holds an impressive array of armor, from scrapped-together pieces of leather and metal that look as if they were scavenged for parts to heavy metal armor and thick combat leathers, including a set of black and white gear that looks far more professional and intimidating than the ramshackle collection of the others, as if taken from an organized faction…

Well. It looks as if she has made more enemies than just the Enclave. But the one article that catches his attention is a worn leather jacket carefully set to the side, black leather scuffed raw about the shoulders and elbows. It looks far too big for Jinx's frame, but too short in the sleeves and chest for Charon; he wonders if she is saving it for someone. A poison-green snake is emblazoned on the back, the threads far brighter than anything else he has seen in the wastes so far, aside from Jinx's hair.

The other lockers by the door are similarly insightful. She has enough miscellaneous weaponry to equip a small army—or take one on. A variety of hand-guns, including everything from silenced pistols to scoped Magnums with heavy grips. Three hunting rifles, several shotguns, even some odds and ends like brass knuckles and belts of grenades and mines, sorted by whether they emitted electromagnetic pulses, plasma, or more conventional frag grenades. Fawkes quickly loses interest in tallying each individual item, taken aback by the sheer magnitude of her collection. She even has a _Fat Man_ in there, though its appearance is strange and patchwork, as if carefully cobbled together from more bits and pieces of others she was forced to make do with.

_Under the laughter and too-much-touching is someone prepared to take on the world._ _And win._

He does not even know why he is surprised anymore. Of _course_ she would win if she dared to take on the forces of the entire Wasteland. She burns like the sun, inescapably pulling in those around her. And she manages to hide the steel under silken words and silly stories, the contrast making it all the more chilling, like that blaze of anger by the gate.

What does he really know about her?

_She is… a hero to those in need. A town of abandoned children trusts her. She would have freely saved me without my offered aid in exchange_… The words echo through his mind in a litany, a soft chant against the strangeness of this world, that the friendliest and most open person would be the one most capable of destroying it three times over. His reverie is interrupted as the object of his ruminations barges back through the doors, humming with far too much joy for a woman with such an arsenal.

"Hey there! Hope you weren't too bored, but I'm ready to head out again." Her smile is like a beacon, lighting up her face and drawing the eye towards her. She looks far younger without the bulk of her armor pressing on her, hopping from one foot to another and dancing like a flame made flesh.

"What were you doing?" he asks, thinking back to whatever she had palmed before leaving.

She just laughs airily, twirling lazily on one foot and flapping her hand dismissively. "Girl things. I'll tell you later, don't worry." The gaiety drops as she cocks an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms. "I'll tell you the truth, no worries. Just… not right now. You might need plausible deniability."

"You are hardly reassuring," Fawkes rumbles disapprovingly, crossing his arms in turn. Aware of how he looms without trying, he attempts to press his back against the wall, allowing himself to slump somewhat closer to her height. "You said we are friends. Companions. I think that deserves a bit of honesty."

"And I want to protect you, just in case this goes south," is the pleading response, her arms uncrossing as she holds her hands up in mute surrender.

"Were you doing what's right, or what's left?" The words feel strange passing his lips, but the echo of her own rant carries the desired sting. Her back stiffens, and she blinks fiercely, biting her lip.

"I was doing what is right. Just… unfortunately, that can skate the lines of the law," she says carefully. "But it was right, I promise you that. I stole nothing but knowledge, and even that was nothing but the confirmation of an absence." Her eyes are guarded now, carefully blank as she stares up at him. "Please, believe me."

That softly whispered plea could break a man.

So he nods, dimly aware that even this could be a careful manipulation, feigned vulnerability and weakness covering darker intent. Like soft smiles and dimpled cheeks masking a woman who could outfit an army from the contents of a single locker.

The duality maddens him.

"I believe you," he says finally. And that is true, even if he wonders at just how quickly he grew to trust this young woman. "I trust your knowledge of this place and superior expertise in this matter. But once that is corrected—once I learn more of the ways of Megaton and the Capital Wasteland—I hope there will be no secrets."

"I hope so too," is the quick response. He almost snorts, realizing that hope is not the same as a promise. As if reading his mind, she adds, "I only make promises I can keep, Fawkes. So I don't make 'em lightly."

Rather than push the tense conversation even further, he switches gears entirely. "Fair enough. Shall we prepare for your other errands?"

Her grin washes away the remnants of her too-somber expression. "Yes. Though as fair warning, I may load you up like a pack brahmin."

She asks him to carry much of the material—a few sets of armor, including the scavenged power armor from their foray at the satellite tower, spare rifles and pistols, several fusion batteries, and enough chems to fill a knapsack—but also pulls several large pouches of rattling caps from various hidden spots about the house, such as under her mattress, a loose metal panel of the staircase, and from the toe of a spare set of combat boots. She keeps a running commentary on the location of each cache, letting Fawkes know that each is fair game should 'expenses' come up, though she does not elaborate on the nature of said expenses.

After these preparations, rather than going immediately to the general store, she detours around the perimeter of the settlement. He spots two small children playing with a dog that he recognizes, and Jinx's shrill cry of "Dogmeat! Good boy!" causes the dog to immediately perk up, racing towards them and nearly bowling Jinx over with his enthusiasm.

"Dogmeat! I missed you so much! Were you taking good care of Maggie and Harden?" she cries, rubbing her nose into the dog's fur and breathing deeply. Though the dog must smell of dirt at best, she lets out a contented sigh.

The dark-skinned boy frowns, crossing his arm as he insists, "We were taking care of _him."_

"And you were taking great care of him, I bet!" Her words sound genuine, not condescending in the slightest; Fawkes is not quite sure how she manages that. "Was he any trouble?"

"No, miss Jinx," the little girl says, twisting her toe against the metal flooring as she stares up at Fawkes unabashedly. Hovering between uncertainty at addressing a stranger and childish curiosity, Jinx resolves her dilemma with a simple introduction.

"Maggie, Harden, this is Fawkes. He's a friend of mine."

Maggie blinks owlishly at him, tilting her head to the side in a gesture that immediately reminds him of Jinx. Was this mannerism acquired from watching Jinx, or had it evolved separately? "Is he gonna live with you?"

"If he wants to, sure."

Frowning, the child then asks, "Are you marrying him?"

Jinx spits, choking on her laughter. "I wasn't planning on it."

"Then are you adopting him?"

Raising an eyebrow at Fawkes, Jinx simply shrugs. "In a manner of speaking?" The slightest of uptilts turns that from a statement to a question. "We're friends and traveling companions, so I figure that's close enough."

Maggie refuses to drop the subject, following doggedly as Jinx leads the way to the yellow building helpfully labeled 'Crater Supply.' "Billy says you only live with someone if you're family. Unless it's Charon."

"Why is Charon the exception?" the woman asks guardedly, pale eyes narrowing as if trying to close off her defenses.

"Because he's your faithful ghoul manservant." Just like that, as if it's simple truth.

Fawkes can see the storm breaking in Jinx's eyes, the ragged edge of pain and tears sleeting across her expression. "That's one way of looking at it." Her voice is uncharacteristically flat, the wanderer grabbing the items out of Fawkes' hands and pushing into the store to flee all the implicit assumptions in that well-meaning declaration. Dogmeat nearly gets his tail caught in the door, only a hasty kick from Jinx swinging it open enough to save him from that fate.

Rather than follow, Fawkes hesitates, looking down at Maggie with her wide eyes and innocent brutality. He can only remain in Jinx's shadow for so long before he learns to stand on his own, and if a child can trust him, perhaps adults will do the same. So he lingers, kneeling by her as she stares at him.

"So if Jinx is adopting you, how old are you?"

He swallows, trying to think about what the true answer would be. "Very old, child. I have long since lost track of the years."

"Older than Jinx?" she asks shrewdly, eyes narrowing in calculation.

"Most likely."

"So how can she be your mommy?"

Coughing, he wonders at the monomania of children. "Perhaps we can simply be friends who live together until we become like family."

"But how are you friends then, if you're so much older? Kids and adults aren't friends," she points out, crossing her arms in emphasis.

Fawkes immediately goes for the most obvious discrepancy in that statement. "Children cannot get married or adopt either." Then the second most obvious flaw strikes, and he asks, "Is Jinx an adult or a child?"

"She's both. Half woman and half child, like Billy says." The sentence is said sagely, astonishingly mature from such a young face, and Fawkes briefly wonders just who Billy is. Before he can ask though, he hears Jinx's voice rising from inside the shop.

"Moira, stop all the nudge-nudge wink-wink nonsense! I just need the _bed_. Something big enough for a super mutant, alright? Keep that hideous statue out of my home!"

"Oh, but dear, I'll throw it in for free! It's really time you gave that old place some personality!" a bubbly voice responds, similarly loud in an effort to be heard over Jinx's outburst.

Kicking one foot up behind her, Maggie hops sideways. "Moira likes to decorate with her themes," she whispers confidingly. "But Billy says her taste is 'questionable.'" She even holds up two fingers on each hand, curling them inward to form quotation marks.

At this point, Jinx emerges from the yellow building, cheeks red and arms crossed. "After far too many impertinent questions, we have you a bed! Now let's grab Simms and go to Moriarty's." She stomps her foot for emphasis, gesturing up the ramp with a grandiloquent sweep of her arm.

"If you're going to Moriarty's, I'm going to find Harden. Billy doesn't like me hanging around there," Maggie chirps.

"Sorry, sweetie. But we'll play tag later, I promise!" Unlike earlier, the promise slips easily from her lips, Jinx sealing it with a peck to the young girl's forehead.

Maggie giggles, her smile almost eclipsing her face. "Okay!"

Jinx fondly watches her skip off before shaking her head and shoulders briskly, shedding her residual irritation like a dog shedding water. "Finally, a _fun_ chore," she mumbles under her breath. "Seriously, Fawkes, if I don't go play tag with her and Harden before we leave Megaton, give me a good smack upside the head. Promises are serious business, especially promises to children."

He nods, following her through the sprawling mess of paths that wind about Megaton. "I feel obligated to remind you that one of my 'smacks' may detach your head from your shoulders."

"More reason for me to keep my promise, then." Her teeth flash in a smile, equal parts soft charm and wicked grace as she spots a weathered man in a cowboy hat and long duster. "Hey, Sheriff! I got something that needs your attention!"

"Stayin' out of trouble, I hope? I don't got the bullets to waste," the man responds with a slow, even drawl. He only examines Fawkes briefly, but the super mutant has the distinct impression that the glance was as thorough as it needed to be. His voice resonates with quiet strength, and Fawkes reflects that this man who would make a poor enemy.

With an amiable chuckle, Jinx replies, "You know me, Sheriff. I always do my best to stay on the right side of the Regulators. This here is Fawkes, one of my friends." She waits long enough for a brief introduction and for Simms to tip his hat in greeting before continuing. "Look, I'm about to approach Moriarty about Gob and Nova's contracts. I want you there as backup to make sure everything's on the up and up."

"You plan on talking with words or fists?" Simms asks, raising a grizzled eyebrow.

She crosses her arms, scuffing her feet along the ground impatiently. "Words, of course. I'm not trying to upset the balance here, Simms. I just… you know what he's doing with Gob's not right. 'Indentured servitude' is just a fancy word for slavery, and I'm sick of it."

"So you're doin' what I ain't?" The set of his jaw tells Fawkes this is tricky territory, but Jinx squares her shoulders back, nodding curtly.

"You have your priorities, sheriff, and I got mine. I respect what you do, but there are things a wanderer can do that an established authority figure can't. I aim to compensate Moriarty fairly, but I want to make sure he doesn't try twisting the knife more'n what's fair." Their eyes lock, Jinx's eyes almost glowing as if attempting to uplink an unquantifiable amount of data. Transmission received, Simms is the first to break eye contact.

"I get your gist, Miss Jinx. Let's go to the saloon."

They follow, super mutant and aging sheriff alike trailing in the wake of an energetic young half woman, half child. If this were a more ordered universe—perhaps something written in a book, or an old tape from before the War—Fawkes feels narrative causality would dictate that Sheriff Simms take the lead, as a symbol of both authority and experience. But where Jinx moves, men follow, and they enter the dingy saloon.

A ghoul stands behind the bar, tattered skin and raw lips twisting in a smile of genuine pleasure. "Welcome back, Jinx! Always good to see you," he calls, voice like gravel bleeding.

"Hey Gob. Good to see you too." Her smile is dazzling, brilliant without warmth. Fawkes blinks for just a moment, realizing she had never mentioned… well, why would she mention Gob being a ghoul? To her, he is just a man like anyone else. "Actually, I need to talk with Moriarty."

"Aye? And what is so important as to bring our little saint from the vault in, with the sheriff in tow no less?" comes a thick Irish brogue, the words oily with disdain and sneering calculation. An older man comes out from some back room, arms crossed over a faded shirt that has seen better days.

Jinx's smile widens. Fawkes has seen pictures of jungle cats with friendlier expressions. "Hey, I got a business proposition for you! Do you happen to have Gob's contract on hand right now?"

Moriarty blinks, momentarily taken back by her abrupt demand. Simms catches on quickly, his smile merciless as a razor beneath his beard. "The lady asked for Gob's contract. Since he is an 'indentured servant' and not a slave, he _must_ have a contract, I do believe."

"I understand you purchased him out of the goodness of your heart, but I _do_ believe…" Jinx continues, echoing Simms. "Fifteen years of working for you, even taking out his room and board, should be more than enough. And if you are being a _good businessman_," she adds emphatically, hands on her hips, her fingers carefully tilted away from the grips of her laser pistols, "You would be keeping track of his ongoing debt. Records of how much you paid for him. His daily wages, minus his food…"

Off balance and off kilter, Moriarty's mouth gapes open. Behind him, Gob is barely moving, his hands gripping the edge of the bar so tightly his knuckles would be white if any of the skin were still intact. His eyes shine with hope, fixed on Jinx with a desperate hunger that twists through him like a knife.

"So show me the contract, Moriarty. I have the caps, and I want to purchase the remainder of his services," the girl continues ebulliently, pulling a thin bag of from one pocket. She tosses it easily in the air, the bottlecaps clattering inside as she catches it in her outstretched palm.

Finally, the Irishman coughs, hocking a gob of something wet and dark into an ashtray. "Fine, my dear. But do remember my office is a mess…"

"Still on paperwork? How… archaic. I thought you kept most of your important information on that old terminal in the back?" Jinx asks innocently. Too innocently, her eyes wide like a child's, blithely ignoring Simms' sudden sideways glare. Fawkes restrains an inappropriate laugh, thinking back to her fingers dancing over the keyboards in Vault 87 until the terminals relinquished their machine-secrets to her eager eyes.

She has been poking where she does not belong; skating the lines of the law to do what's right.

And she does not care.

Fawkes is not quite sure he does either.

Still, having devoted himself this far to her cause, Simms seems inclined to support her play until the game ends. "I believe she is right. Though if you have no contract, either electronic or paper, then you have no hold over that man." _And may Jinx have mercy on you if try to keep him, as I certainly won't_. The last goes unspoken, but the harshness in his voice—and the way that _he_ deliberately keeps his hand by his pistol, mirroring how precisely Jinx kept _her_ hands away from her weapons—means he does not have to speak it aloud.

"Then let me fetch it for you, kind do-gooder," the saloon owner grits out.

Jinx immediately follows him to the back room, sticking her hands in her back pockets with a too-casual smile. When Moriarty growls in protest though, Simms gently pulls her out by the elbow. "You are hardly an unbiased observer. Allow me." With that, he smoothly replaces her position, watching Moriarty to ensure he does not attempt to forge a new contract.

While Moriarty curses, ripping his office apart for a contract that Fawkes suspects does not exist, Jinx immediately wheels towards Gob. Crossing her arms in front of her, she starts tapping a staccato rhythm with one foot. "Any thought about where you'd like to go, or what you'd like to do after this?"

The bartender shakes his head, staring at Jinx with milky eyes. "I never thought I'd leave this place." His voice is quiet, almost reverential despite the gravelly tones.

A sympathetic pang flares through Fawkes, reflecting on how his own days spent endlessly staring at the ceiling, counting prime numbers backwards and forwards. There had been moments he thought the small cell would be his tomb… except that he would die a violent and bloody death at the hands of his brethren, unable to even count on time's passage to bring an end.

Are ghouls similarly physiologically immortal? He never had the opportunity to ask, and while this does not seem an appropriate time, he files that question away for future perusal. He has so many questions now, he imagines stuffing them in his pockets until they overflow, trailing behind him to mark his path through this strange sun-lit world.

"So where does your imagination take you, when the reality becomes too weary?" he asks instead, cueing a startled widening of Gob's eyes. The ghoul blinks at him without comprehension, the fact that a super mutant is talking—and intelligibly, no less— shocking him beyond understanding the question. Fawkes quietly repeats it. "Where does your imagination take you?"

Gob smiles weakly, the exposed tendon of his cheek strumming tightly with the effort. "Imagination's not the real thing. I thought… I thought I'd be tagging along with Jinx. Like Daring Dashwood and Argyle. But listening to the news—seeing the messes you come back home with—I'm no adventurer. I'd just slow you down. Probably get you killed," he grates, the admission painfully echoing Fawkes' own words. There is longing on his face, but it is overshadowed by the sad awareness of his own frailty. "I'd be better off back home in Underworld."

Jinx reaches out with a gentle hand, heedless of the necrosis as she touches a finger to the edge of Gob's smile. "Carol misses you." Her palm cups his cheek, and Gob sighs—actually sighs, and Fawkes blinks, momentarily troubled. As physical as Jinx is, does she ever reflect on how her casual contact would feel to someone as touch-starved as a ghoul in a human settlement…? Blithely unaware of Fawkes' unease, she continues, "And you don't have to stick around Underworld. I can always escort you to Rivet City, or wherever else you think you might find a fresh start."

"I'd like to see her again," he admits. She pulls her hand back, grinning. Gob still looks dumbstruck, his hand floating upward to feel where she touched him. An indirect joining.

"Good. And… is Nova around right now? Or is she…?" Jinx's gaze flicks upstairs.

Gob's lips turn downwards, the troubled frown difficult to distinguish from the awed smile of earlier with his ruined facial features. "Jericho paid for her services. He's not usually into romance."

Blowing through her lips in a long exhale, Jinx sighs. "Well, short of marching up there and hosing them down… would Nova be willing to leave too? Like, say, tonight? If Moriarty has nothing on you, I bet he has nothing on Nova either, so I could get both of you out of here in one swoop…"

"She's been wanting out from Moriarty's thumb since her first day," Gob says quietly. "She would be overjoyed."

At this point, Moriarty storms back into the bar, looking ready to spit poison. Simms trails behind him, his hands still a little too-casually near his weapon.

"I appear to have misplaced the paperwork for Gob's contract," the saloon owner says slowly, through gritted teeth.

Jinx hops herself up to sit on the bar, crossing her legs in front of her. "I understand accidents happen." She smiles sympathetically, even if the warmth does not quite reach her eyes. "I am still willing to pay a compensation. Would I be correct in assuming you also misplaced Nova's paperwork?"

Now Moriarty recoils as if punched, the color draining from his face. "Now, lass, it's _one_ thing to take the zombie, but my best draw…?"

"I'm not _taking_ her," Jinx emphasizes, straightening her back to give herself as much height as possible. "I'm _giving_ her a choice. What she wants to do is completely up to her." She frowns, fingers drumming against the wooden bar. "If she really wants to keep working for you as an… 'independent contractor,' let's say, that's up to her. And you. But keeping her indefinitely until she has 'worked off her debt' is also pretty damn fishy. _Maybe_ you should consider an actual contract." Her smile is beautiful and merciless. "And maybe you should reconsider the slurs while you're at it, smoothskin."

"I'm going to need quite a lot of caps to make up for the loss in business—" the saloon owner begins, but Jinx immediately cuts over him.

"Three thousand caps for the pair of them. They are free to do as they wish, _including _continue working for you, if they are so inclined. Just to make it clear that I am not purchasing them as slaves or employees," she adds, briefly glancing aside to Simms. He nods approvingly. "All I am doing is simply making sure that even though you have unfortunately lost their contracts, _you_ still get compensation, and _they_ are able to leave free and clear. They owe you nothing past this, and Simms is here to witness that offer. Are we in agreement, Moriarty?"

The man glares at Jinx, hovering between greed at the thought of so much money up front and anger that she is so high-handedly removing his two employees. He looks about ready to spit, but then forces a smile, his lilting tones turning wheedling. "Now, that is a mighty fine offer, lass. But I will still need time; at least a wee bit of notice, or how will I deal with the caravans coming in with short staff? A puir old man like myself, parting with my best girl and my best boy?" He wraps an arm casually over Gob's shoulders, squeezing the ghoul close in a mocking parody of affection. Gob grits his teeth, shoulders drawing up tight as if to curl himself inward at the unwanted touch.

"For your inconvenience, I will be willing to front up an additional thousand caps. But they leave _now_. On this, I will not budge," Jinx says, almost pleasantly, though her eyes are flat as stones. "And speaking of budging, you might want to move that arm. I don't think Gob likes it much. And neither do I, for that matter." She might as well be discussing the weather for all the emotion she allows on her features. Though even this curious blankness is alarming, compared to her usual expressiveness.

It is a credit to his courage—or perhaps his business acumen—that Moriarty simply smiles. "Four thousand caps is an acceptable offer."

"Lotsa caps, right?" Jinx smirks, pulling out multiple small bags of jangling caps. "You can count these if you wish. But… lotsa caps."

Something about that phrase infuriates Moriarty, his face going from white to red as he immediately starts counting the money, caps rattling across the bar as he divides them into piles. "Stay right there. None of you are leaving until this is all done," he growls.

Footsteps start coming down the stairs, and a leathery-faced man with a dark beard gives a low whistle at the sight of everyone gathered down. "Damn. A vaultie, a mutie, and a sheriff all walk into a bar… where's the punchline?" Behind him, an attractive woman with copper-red hair—looking vibrant but natural, unlike Jinx's neon mop—pulls her clothing into a more presentable state.

"Hey, that one yours?" the man asks, pointing a finger at Fawkes. Rather than looking intimidated, he grins as if spoiling for a fight. "Finally got tired of fucking the big ghoul and wanted one bigger and uglier?"

Jinx just laughs, giving a playful shrug. "Don't worry, Jericho. If I ever want to upgrade my ugly, I know where you live."

"And don't _you_ worry, baby girl. If I ever get tired of real women—" Here he gives the other woman a squeeze, which she allows with a slight roll of her eyes. "—and want to start screwing little girls, I know where you live too." His smile is broad and wicked.

"Fawkes, please meet the ever-lovely Nova and our favorite neighbor, Jericho. Jericho and Nova, please meet my friend Fawkes," Jinx intones, bowing her head as if this were a formal introduction. Uncertain of how to respond, Fawkes just nods his head.

Nova nods back, taking a drag off a cigarette. "Nice to meet you too, Fawkes." Her gaze drifts to the side, at Moriarty swearing under his breath while counting the caps. "Closing time already?"

"Yes," Jinx says quickly. "If you want to. I'm buying you and Gob out of here—you don't owe Moriarty anything else after this."

The woman just smiles, eyes guarded. "So what do I owe you?"

"Nothing, unless you count trying to stay out of the same pit," Jinx admits, kicking out her legs.

"You wouldn't be working here anymore?" Jericho asks as if that was the only important part of the conversation. He turns to face Nova, looking ready to grab her by the shoulders, but holding back by sheer force of will. Or perhaps the awareness that the sheriff and Jinx are both watching, possibly ready to crack skulls for any presumed impropriety. "Would you leave?"

Nova shrugs, crossing her arms in front of her. "Depends on what the terms were." Her voice is distant, eyes still shuttered against emotion.

"Moriarty! Would—" Jericho hollers, apparently desperate to see what will become of the prostitute.

"Shut up, lad! I've got to finish counting these!"

"Look, Jericho," Jinx says sympathetically, sliding off the bar and patting Jericho on the shoulder, "Maybe you better just go back home and to bed. We're still sorting this out."

"So help me, if the _one_ decent piece of tail in this town up and leaves because of you, you _owe_ me, fuckin' goody-two-shoes," the man spits, swatting her hand away.

"Two bottles of whiskey with your name on 'em. Got it."

Watching the man slam the door shut as he leaves, Nova quietly murmurs, "You really have to yank his chain?"

"Have to? No. Want to? Oh yes." Jinx shrugs helplessly, giving a lopsided smile. "Jericho's… not that bad. Not that _good_," she hastily adds, "But not that bad. We might not get along all the time, but it's friendly hostility. Sort of." She abruptly switches topics, lowering her voice. "I was serious about buying off Moriarty. If you _want_ to stay here, you can. Not judging. But I'm taking Gob to Underworld, and if you want to get a fresh start in Rivet City or somewhere else, we could take you."

Nova stares at the door, the cigarette dangling loosely from one hand. "I might need a night to think on it, to be honest. I—no one ever thinks they want to be a whore, but if I got to keep more of what I made, it might not be so bad. It's not that much worse than some of the jobs I've had before."

"Then that's your choice. Do you want to spend the night at my place?" Jinx asks, hands restlessly fidgeting behind her back. "Just to pack up your things, wake up somewhere that's not…" Her voice trails off helplessly.

Giving Jinx a faint nod, Nova raises the cigarette to her lips once more. "Yeah. That might be nice. And you're taking Gobbie?"

"Yeah." Jinx cracks a surprisingly shy smile, twisting the toe of her boot into the floor. "And if you want to check out Underworld, they're pretty nice to us smoothskins. Well, except Crowley, but he's an ass. You and Gob—"

Nova immediately shakes her head, flicking ash from the end of her cig. "No. Look, it's real sweet of you to try and play matchmaker, but it would just never work." Her voice is low, little more than a soft murmur easily lost in the ambient noise of Moriarty counting caps and swearing, or the radio playing in the background. Judging from Gob's lack of reaction—he is still hungrily watching Moriarty count caps—the ghoul can't hear.

Just Fawkes, because he stands by Jinx and apparently neither woman consider him an intruder on their intimate conversation.

"I'm sorry, I just thought when you said 'Gobbie' that maybe you were—" Jinx shrugs, cheeks darkening with embarrassment.

"I still don't do johns squishier than me," Nova says, not unkindly. "And while he's sweet, I think he's over his silly little crush."

_I can imagine why_. Fawkes thinks back on the way Jinx had so casually cupped his cheek, and the ghoul's soft sigh.

"Forget it then. I mean, the offer's still open if you want us to take you somewhere else, so…"

"Why don't you help me pack my things and we'll talk about it?" Nova's eyes meet Fawkes', and she smiles wryly. "Just some girl talk."

Jinx immediately follows, and Fawkes turns his attention back to the bar.

Moriarty is almost through with his counting, and the familiar clank of rattling currency appears to have had a soothing effect. When he jingles the last cap with a satisfied, "Four thousand. Girl might have to _buy_ her friends, but at least she pays well."

The sheriff grunts, making no comment other than, "Well, Gob gets to leave then. Any belongings?"

"Just a spare change of clothes," the ghoul rasps, shaking himself as waking from a long sleep. "That's—"

"—more than you came in with," Moriarty snaps. "Nova's got some things of her own, but I gave you every stitch you're wearing. If the little lass wants to take you, she can give you a new pair of trousers."

The ghoul's chuckle sounds like rocks going through a grinder. "Fair enough to finally leave. I haven't felt sunlight for ages." Walking out from behind the bar, the man breathes deeply, flexing his arms as if about to take flight. Fawkes is struck by the breadth of his shoulders and the way the shirt stretches across his chest, realizing that despite his beaten-down posture, Gob is much stronger than he lets on. Physically, at least; he walks like a man broken, but even that fades, milky gaze turning to the stairs as Jinx and Nova come down.

"Anything you want to take?" Jinx asks, apparently not having heard Moriarty from upstairs.

Gob shakes his head. "Not even the memories."


	9. The Stars Burn For Us

Once outside the saloon, Jinx promptly hops up to hug Simms about the shoulders, laughing as his whiskers tickle her face.

"That was magnificent, Simms! Thanks for backing me up in there!" she exclaims even as he pushes her away. She takes the momentum of his gentle shove and twirls in place, arms spread wide as the wings of an airplane.

"It won't do much for the illusion of impartiality if you keep hanging on to me like that," he says sternly. "But I was happy to help. Just never could figure out how to do it without guns blazing. The town's too settled for that sort of vigilante action."

"So you're stuck doing what's left." Jinx gives Fawkes a sideways grin, the humor not quite reaching her eyes. _Not what's right, but what's left_.

"Unfortunately yes. Speaking of that." He clears his throat, hesitantly turning his attention to Nova. "Miss Nova, you are your own person. But if you would be willing to consider staying in Megaton, I know many of the caravans would greatly appreciate it. We—"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Jinx snaps, spinning back and waving her finger in Simms' face. "Nova gets to do what she _wants_ to do, not have to listen to you!" At least this mercurial change in mood is not quite as alarming as before; while she vibrates with barely restrained energy, the flavor of her outrage is defensive rather than hostile.

"Jinx, it's fine," the woman cuts in gently. "I know. Just calm down. You don't always have to protect everyone." A crooked smile crosses her face as she squeezes Jinx's arm, tucking her close. "Look, let's get a bit away from the saloon and talk, why don't we?"

Gently, Nova steers them down the ramp towards the center of town. Simms follows, while Gob lags just slightly, staring up at the sun with quiet disbelief. Fawkes wonders if he looked that lost when he first emerged from the vault, or if Jinx had that look… or if even then, she was laughing with joy, arms stretched to embrace the sun.

"I don't mind staying. I _like_ Megaton," Nova says quietly, still walking with her arm linked through Jinx's. Side by side with their hair flaming scarlet in the light, they might pass for cousins, if not sisters. "But face it; if I stayed, most people would never see me as anything other than the town whore. And I wouldn't mind that, not if I got to keep more of what I make and didn't have to keep to Moriarty's rules."

"It would be an awful boon to us if you stayed as well," Simms admits, catching up on Nova's other side. "It would keep more of the caps in local circulation, at least."

"So… let me sleep over at your place. Give Moriarty a night to sweat it out, then I can go back with better terms." Nova gives Simms a professional smile and a brief pat on the arm. "I reckon with the sheriff in my corner, he won't be so quick to offer me another bad loan."

"I would be much obliged to be of service, miss. But I best be going now that you're all settled." He gives them a brief tilt of his hat before continuing his sauntering patrol about Megaton.

"Okay, let's drop your things off at the house first, then we're going shopping for Gob," Jinx decides, almost skipping with excitement and pulling Nova with her. "I also have some spare pistols, and I would like both of you to have one. Just a little insurance. Then—oh nuts. I bought you guys out, and I'm already bossing you around. I am very sorry." Her cheeks are dark pink, and she shuffles her feet ashamedly.

Nova gives a laugh like warm honey. "Sweetie, you think you have to protect everyone around you. I know you're trying, but it's fine."

"And you look a hell of a lot better than the old miser," Gob mutters under his breath. When Fawkes turns to look at him, the ghoul claps a hand over his mouth, shaking his head in embarrassment.

"Look. Just to be absolutely clear—I _want_ to do these things, but you don't have to go along. I just would feel better if both of you got some kind of weapon, and if we got some fresh clothes from Crater Supply," Jinx continues doggedly, even with her cheeks now matching her hair.

"I don't need anything, but I might take the chance to amble about. Be nice to spend a day outside the saloon instead of in it." Nova squeezes Jinx's arm again, releasing so the woman can unlock the door to her house.

"Hey, don't worry! However much time you need! I can get you a spare key if you—oh _no_, Moira!" Her voice rises into a high wail as the door swings open, revealing a heart-shaped bed covered in a gaudy red blanket and an _interesting_ ceiling lamp. Nova, Fawkes, and Gob all tilt their head in unison, trying to make sense of the intertwined figures…

"I don't even know how she managed to set everything up so quickly," mutters Jinx, now staring at a row of whiskey and vodka bottles. "I am really very sorry. I haven't seen _any_ of this before, I swear. The only thing I ordered was the bed."

Nova chuckles, apparently less embarrassed than Gob, who is still blinking at the lamp. "Feeling a bit lonely?"

"Oh, always." Jinx says it so flippantly that it might even be true. "But in this case, I just needed a bed big enough for a super mutant. Moira drew her own conclusions."

"That is for me?" Fawkes supposes he should feel grateful—it does look large—but the shape is far too suggestive. And that's not forgetting the lamp overhead; it does _not_ look as if it has been designed with safety in mind. What if one of the support hooks breaks with him under it?

Apparently his concern is easy enough to read. "I'm giving the lamp back to Moira. It just—ugh. No. I can't sleep with it in the house. I'd give it to Dukov, but then I'd have to schlep it across the Wasteland…" she mutters, voice trailing off.

Fawkes looks at the lamp, then at Jinx. Then he snorts. "You mean _I_ would have to carry it across the Wasteland. It's far larger than you."

"Eh. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to," she says dismissively, hiding her guilty grin behind one hand. "And so much for only one joke a day! But either way, no. That's going back to Moira. But first…" Jinx rummages in one of the lockers by the door. Having seen her arsenal already, Fawkes simply watches Gob and Nova, wondering if they are as taken aback by the display as he was. Nova does not seem perturbed at all, or perhaps she is simply better at hiding it; Gob appears more awe-struck than anything else.

"Fawkes, anything and everything in the house is fair game for you as well, since we'll be living together and watching each other's backs. I mean it. Anything you think could be useful, grab it. Ammo, weapons, whatever—don't even think about it." The way she keeps repeating it, almost pleading faith in her sincerity, makes him shiver.

_How many conversations with Charon have gone this way?_

Two pistols come out, one in each of her hands as she eyes both Gob and Nova. "Hey, either of you have any experience with guns?"

Nova shrugs, casually holding up her thumb and forefinger with less than an inch of space between. Gob just shakes his head.

"Okay. No sense in a weapon you don't know how to use," Jinx begins, but Nova shakes her head.

"You still have errands to do, hon. I know how to use a pistol already, and Simms can give me some more pointers. You can teach Gob on the road. Besides, if all goes well—we won't _have_ to be you." Nova leans in, brushing her pale hand over Jinx's cheek and scratching her behind the ear as if consoling a puppy or small child. "You don't need to. Besides—it gives me an excuse to talk with that nice sheriff," she adds lightly. "Let it go."

"I like being thorough," the smaller woman mutters. But she gives a quick half-step in, squeezing herself tightly against Nova. She does not do the typical lean in of most people, where only the arms clasp and the upper body touches; Jinx hugs with the entirety of her form. Nova does not seem to mind, just stroking her hair and murmuring something soothing in her ear. Whatever it is must have worked, since Jinx laughs before releasing Nova from the embrace.

"I wouldn't mind you teaching me. Maybe I can make myself useful on the trip." Gob smiles liplessly, hands held loosely behind his back. "I'm no Charon, but at least I can keep from slowing you down too much."

Jinx's mouth twitches. "I like that you're not Charon."

"Well, I think that's our cue to leave," Nova says cheerfully, taking Fawkes' hand—what is it with these women and all the unexpected _touching_? Fawkes shifts uneasily, allowing her to pull him along. "Why don't you two go shopping? I'd like to borrow Fawkes, if you don't mind."

"Fawkes is his own man." Her lips are tilted up, but the shape of her mouth is more a broken gash than true smile. Her eyes shine, and Fawkes knows what that means.

Nova may know, but her eyes crinkle as she plays along, treating the surface joke as the substance. "Is he now? Well, if you don't mind then, will you escort me about Megaton?"

"I would be delighted," he finds himself saying.

* * *

"Has Jinx shown you around yet?" Nova asks once outside the house. She also releases his hand, stretching her arms overhead.

"A little. The supply store and the saloon, at least."

Her laughter is like cola, sweet and bubbling. "Then no, she hasn't. Let me introduce you to some folks and point out a few other places. Megaton was built up scraps and pieces at a time, so it's a bit confusing for anyone just coming in."

Feeling the metal panels groan underfoot, Fawkes shudders. "It feels quite precarious."

"Perhaps, but it's held together this long at least."

He looks down at her, weighing one of the many questions on his mind. Finally, he coughs, deciding to ask at least one. "Nova, I have a question, if I may."

"I might have an answer." Her smile is gentle.

"Am I simply unaccustomed to Wasteland traditions? You, Jinx—most of the people I met have been quite…" He gropes for words, attempting to articulate it inoffensively. "Physically affectionate," is the final phrase he settles on.

"She is very touchy, isn't she?" Nova chuckles, but it is a resigned sound. "She is very, ah, touch-starved. She would hug the world if it would hug back." She shrugs, tucking her arms about herself as if chilled. "It's something she needs, like a fire needs fuel. So I give it to her."

Thinking back… _she_ initiates most of the contact. She is the one to clasp others to the circle of her arms, laughing and brushing—

"She is lonely. And I am used to dealing with lonely people." Nova smiles faintly, shaking her head. "If she makes you uncomfortable, you can just tell her, you know. She doesn't mean to do it. I don't think she's even aware of it."

_Touch-starved as a ghoul living in a human settlement_…

"You intentionally left them alone," he says, the gears slowly turning. He does not even bother phrasing it as a question.

"Clever man." Nova's smile broadens, and she taps her lower lip with smug satisfaction. "More clever than Jinx, at least. I don't even know if she likes Gobbie that way, but they've never had a chance to just talk with one another."

Fawkes coughs hesitantly, now wondering about something Nova had said back at the bar. "So the rot is not an active process, then?"

"Oh, no. Ghouls aren't actually that squishy, even if they look a mess. I still have standards, low as they are, but…" She makes a face, pushing her hands away in a shooing motion. "Maybe I'm just shallow. I like my men to have skin; I couldn't do it with a ghoul."

_And you think Jinx could?_

Nova accurately reads his perplexity, eyes glinting with wicked delight. "Jinx is much nicer than I am. I think she'd be able to see the man beneath. And even if not; well." She shrugs dismissively. "A little hand-holding might be just what they both need." Reaching out with one hand, she pats Fawkes on the back. "They'll figure it out."

"So… _she_ is touch-starved. Why do you—touch—so much?" he asks slowly. It is pleasant, but surprising; prolonged isolation has made him lonely for human contact, but always more intellectual than physical. He is slowly learning that warmth and flesh have their own sort of charm.

She favors him with a pitying smile. "Fawkes, I am a hooker."

"Off the clock."

"For now." She shrugs fatalistically, placing her hands in her pockets. "It doesn't bother me. But let's make some introductions."

Nova guides Fawkes back to the town center, pointing out the various sites of interest. The clinic and water treatment plants are places of importance, if not fascination, though Nova's laughter at describing the acerbic Doc Church makes him curious to meet the man. An immense bomb sits at the center of a congregation of eccentric worshipers in a puddle of radioactive water that gleams murky green under the wan sunlight. When Fawkes expresses his disbelief that the town has an active bomb at its center, Nova quickly explains that no, Jinx deactivated it long before. Her first day in town, in fact.

When he looks at the bomb, he sees Jinx.

_Even in her absence, she remains at the center of it all_.

Nova finishes up the impromptu tour at the Brass Lantern, where Fawkes feels the weight of strangers' stares heavy on his skin and must duck to avoid hitting his head against the dangling namesake light sources. It is different to be escorted by Nova than Jinx; Nova is a familiar fixture, but lacks the respect that Jinx commands. The fact that he is allowed past the gates is already a point in his favor, but does not fully compensate for the fact that he is a monster among men. A 'Frankenstein,' as the radio announcer claimed.

He wonders if Jinx has already read that book on the shelf.

The prostitute makes small talk with various friendly faces, and even attempts to engage Fawkes in the flow of conversation, but it only makes him feel more awkward, the small crowd making him profoundly aware of his prolonged isolation. Every forced utterance scrapes up his throat like a razor, stymied by the knowledge that he already looks so brutish that any attempt to overcompensate with intellectualism would only create further cognitive dissonance…

And now, he wearily reflects, even his internal monologue sounds dredged from a thesaurus. Fortunately, he is soon spared as a familiar mop of fire-red hair becomes visible, the owner half-skipping, half-running into the Brass Lantern with Gob in tow. The broad-shouldered ghoul does look far better in his new clothing, and could pass for a traveling trader in a shirt approaching white and a leather vest lined with small pockets. A brilliant red scarf is tied about his neck, a jaunty touch that Fawkes strongly suspects came from Jinx.

"Hey hey! Who's the handsomest ghoul you ever saw now, huh?" Jinx laughs, flinging her arms over Gob's shoulders so that he lurches. But he quickly catches his step, beaming foolishly as he awkwardly shuffles his feet together.

"You've definitely gone up in the world, Gobbie," Nova says appreciatively, her eyes tracing over the fine lines of his clothing with a practiced air. Gob flushes under the attention, the flaking patches about his eyes crinkling with delight.

"Wanna celebrate with dinner out? My treat," the little Lone Wanderer offers ebulliently, one arm still across Gob's shoulders. He still lists to the side like a capsized vessel, the only way she could so comfortably wrap her arm about him. "Or rather, do me a _favor_ and let's eat out. I don't feel like cooking tonight."

Nova snorts, raising an eyebrow in challenge. "Well, hon, if it's a _favor_, I suppose I can stuff myself. I plan on drinking your fridge dry tonight, and need some food in my belly to soak it up."

"Go for it. I can't drink worth a damn anyway." Jinx's flippancy is spoiled as she starts giggling madly. "And hey, better than drinking at Moriarty's."

"You know he takes the beer and pisses in it, right?" a lean, brown-haired man butts in, leaning cross the counter and scowling. Fawkes remembers he's one of the Stahl brothers—Andy? Leo? He doesn't remember all the names from Nova's hasty introductions, especially when they had been talking to _her_ rather than him.

"Yes, Andy. And so does every passing trader, drifter, or slow-moving brahmin in earshot of you," Jinx retorts, releasing Gob. "You taking orders tonight, or just gonna keep badmouthing the competition? We're already here anyways."

"I'll take your orders. Hell, dinner's on the house if you really got Gob and Nova outta that shithole. Anything to annoy that bastard." The words are laced with malevolent spite, his smiling lips pressed tight as if to keep from singing.

Nova puts her hands on her hips, puckering in a mock pout. "Oh, you doubt me?"

"Nah, but I want to hear it from her," the Stahl says smugly.

Crossing her eyes and holding one hand high in salute, Jinx intones, "I hereby confirm exactly whatever Nova told you."

"Aw damn. I should have made it a much taller tale, then," Nova sighs regretfully. "Worked in a fistfight with Jericho. Had you riding in on a deathclaw. Or maybe a yao guai."

Grinning at Fawkes, Jinx quips, "Never too late to work in a super mutant."

"And that's what _she_ said." Andy's smug smile stretches; any further, and his mouth could act as a hinge. Nova just groans in response, muttering under her breath about bad jokes, old jokes, and _bad_ old jokes. Fawkes does not quite understand the humor; neither does Jinx, a flicker of incomprehension passing her features before she shrugs fatalistically.

"Hey, if you're done kidding around, got any mirelurk meat? I like the cakes." Turning to raise an eyebrow at Fawkes, she asks, "Any preference? I don't know if you've had any of this before."

"Whatever you feel is sufficient," he says helplessly. He enjoyed both meals at Big Town, but lacks the shared common experience to even identify much of what he had. Another small way in which he is an outsider.

Her eyes crinkle sympathetically, and she pats the back of his hand. "Too much to ask for one of everything? Whatever we don't eat tonight, we can take on the road tomorrow."

With Jinx's suggestion, the meal quickly becomes a family style affair. The other Stahl brother clears a table in the corner, allowing Gob and Nova to take a seat. The chair gives a warning groan as Fawkes attempts to shift his bulk into it, so he quickly discards it in favor of sitting on the floor. Though actually resting his plate on the table is rather awkward, it still allows him to remain included in the small party's dynamics. It also finally allows him to be eye-to-eye with Jinx without either of them craning their heads.

Gamey, lean chunks of meat on wooden skewers, small cakes of tender white flesh that taste faintly of mud and sweetness, more molerat (he recognizes the gristly aftertaste) covered in some sort of savory brown gravy, and thick cuts of steak still pink in the middle all make a fine meal, especially with a large bowl of fluffy white mash on the side. The starchy dish makes an excellent means of sopping up some of the lingering sauces from the other items. After each bite, before he has had a chance to even chew, Jinx quickly asks how he likes it. He tries to answer truthfully—aware that the owners of the Brass Lantern are still in earshot—and cover his mouth while speaking, but Nova scolds Jinx, swatting her hand lightly.

"Let the man eat, hon."

Eventually, after having a chance to judiciously sample everything, Fawkes feels comfortable declaring a particular fondness for the skewered meat.

"Squirrel on a stick, huh? Good choice, but not my favorite. I like mirelurk," Jinx giggles, taking the last bite of what's on her plate. A stray morsel of meat lingers on her cheek, bright as a star against the darkness of her skin. Unselfconsciously, she sticks her tongue out to the corner, licking it free.

Despite Jinx's earlier declaration, there are actually no left-overs for the trip; while Jinx eats a surprising amount for her size and put a plate aside for Dogmeat, and Nova and Gob certainly aren't holding themselves back on anyone's account, Fawkes demolishes most of the meal himself. At twice everyone else's size and a minimum of… he frowns briefly, considering the mathematics. Assuming weight to be proportional to volume, and volume cubed as lengths doubled, he is approximately eight times Jinx's mass.

"What's the matter, Fawkes? Indigestion?" the tiny woman asks, wiggling in her seat like an impatient child as she pulls a bag of caps from one pocket.

"Nothing of the sort. Though I hope you are not too full to remember your promise to play with the children."

"I didn't forget," she says reassuringly, counting out the payment for their meal. Either she forgot Andy's offer of a free meal or decided to pay anyways. "Hey, Gob, Nova—I promised Maggie and Harden I'd play tag with them while there's still light out. Meet back at my place when the sun starts going down?"

"I think I'll actually take a nap, if you don't mind," Nova yawns, pushing her seat back from the table and patting her belly comfortably. "I normally don't eat so much, but this was wonderful."

As Jinx fishes out the key, passing it to Nova and ordering Dog to follow her home, Gob offers, "I might watch, if you don't mind."

"Oh, I mind." A smile follows that declaration, and she leans across the table to tap his nose. Or what's left of it. "It's more fun to _do_ than watch. Besides, they like to gang up on me!" she complains, crossing her arms and sticking her lower lip out so far that Fawkes fancies he could shelve books on it.

He feels his face creak about the edges, each closed-mouthed curl of his lip slowly becoming easier. "Perhaps I can finally rescue you, then."

She giggles, leaning against his shoulder and patting his forearm. "Children are much scarier than the Enclave, after all." Her palm rests against his skin just long enough to be uncomfortable, but she withdraws as he tenses against the unnerving contact. Nova makes some sort of complicated shoulder motion at him, simply raising an eyebrow as she turns to leave.

Nova's advice echoes through his head; if he just _tells_ Jinx he's uncomfortable, she'll stop. But thinking and doing are separate things, walled off from one another by all his uncertainty. Aware of being so alone in this world; and afraid of alienating the one person who trusts him for _who_ he is, rather than shunning him for _what_ he is. And keenly conscious of just how ridiculous it must appear for someone of his size and strength to be made uneasy by a woman whom he could lift in one hand… but how many have looked past the playful veneer?

This quietly troubles him, gnawing at his stomach while Jinx pays Andy and leads Gob out the door. Still, he follows—unease is better than being alone again. Harden and Maggie are playing outside Craterside Supply, hopping along a set of squares marked in chalk on the ground. The little girl beams brightly at them, clapping her hands in delight and flinging her arms around Jinx, burying her face against the wanderer's shirt.

"You came back!"

"I promised, didn't I?" Jinx pats her hand against Maggie's back, curving her shoulders as if to shield her from the world. "I keep all my promises."

"Yeah. She promised to get the radio working again. And went trekking all the way to Three Dog's studio to fix the signal." Gob's gravel-tones are slow, thoughtful. And his arms are loosely clasped in front of him, like defenses slowly lowered.

"Hey, I had to find him to track my dad down anyway," Jinx demurs, shrugging awkwardly with Maggie still in her arms.

Harden crosses his arms, squaring his jaw. Fawkes recognizes the echoes of his father's mannerisms. "My dad said you delivered a letter for Lucy West. And had to deal with a bunch of blood-suckers too. That's a ways to go for a promise."

Jinx gives a skittering laugh, gently pushing Maggie away and shaking her head. "Maybe, but I wander around a lot. But no sense in wasting daylight," she says, tapping her foot impatiently. "Still want to play tag? Gob and Fawkes are up for it too. I figured the more the merrier."

Maggie immediately makes a face, ducking behind Jinx so that the young woman is squarely between her and the mutant. "I don't think I'd want to be tagged by a super mutant." The words aren't even malicious; just as innocently brutal as before. Fawkes immediately has visions of onlookers gazing in horror as he pursues a little girl with outstretched arms. Bellowing 'Tag! You're it!' would scarcely dispel their initial reactions. Gob gives him a sympathetic look and a faint nod of recognition.

Jinx grimaces, sticking her tongue out. "I've played hide and seek with some of the mean ones before. Not a lot of fun. But you know what we could do instead?" she asks brightly, kicking her foot back.

Immediately, Gob takes that opening to innocently ask what. Fawkes breathes a sigh of gratitude, feeling a renewed kinship.

"Sardines!" she exclaims, eyes bright. "It's kind of like hide and seek, but only one person goes to hide. Everyone else waits in a huddle, then separates to find the first person. Once you find them, you have to stick with them, and the last person to join the huddle becomes the first person to hide in the next game. Sound like fun?" As cheery and enthusiastic as she is, she could probably have asked "Want to go kill someone?" and both Maggie and Harden would have nodded just as eagerly.

A quick game of rock, paper, scissors between the two children—the two _actual_ children, he reminds himself, Jinx's strange boundaries aside—determines that Harden's going to hide first. Everyone covers their eyes in their hands while Jinx calls a ten-count, her voice soaring through the air.

"And that's it! Let's find Harden!" she hollers, immediately running to the hilly perimeter of Megaton's walls. Maggie bolts in the other direction, making for the Brass Lantern.

Gob gives a lopsided shrug and crooked smile. "I suppose that's our cue." He exhales slowly, then hesitantly adds, "Though we don't _have_ to split. I mean, a ghoul and a mutant wandering around a smoothskin town?"

"I agree."

The tendon in Gob's cheek turns taut and prominent as his smile stretches. "Good to know. It's nice to have someone else they can stare at. Even if I'm leaving tomorrow anyway." Almost haphazardly, he turns his steps along the perimeter of the town, passing an impromptu sitting area consisting of a moldering couch and tilted table.

"How long have you been in Megaton?" Fawkes asks, idly looking about in vain hopes of finding Harden. At their current pace, he and Gob will likely be the last ones to arrive on the scene. This fails to perturb him.

"Fifteen years. More or less." The ghoul's milky gaze is more distant than usual, pursing his lips and counting under his breath. "Yeah. Fifteen years. Hard to believe."

"How did you—" Here, Fawkes flounders, unsure of whether or not he will bring up bitter memories.

But Gob gives a shrug of wan acceptance, and answers the unspoken question. "I was stupid. Thought I would leave Underworld, head so full of dreams it crowded out my brains. Got captured by slavers and sold to Moriarty." He is quiet for just a heartbeat too long, then adds, "Moriarty might be an asshole, but he was still better than that." His voice is dead and still, eyes averted in putative search for the others.

Jinx is not the only one with nightmares lingering beneath her words.

In an effort to change the subject, he turns to asking Gob about Underworld. Their conversation is eventually broken short as they pass by the water processing plant and catch the tail end of a soft giggle. Gob shrugs, absently running his thumb over the edge of his new bandanna before reaching for the door. It swings open, revealing the missing trio.

Jinx covers her mouth, but the curve of her lips is still visible behind splayed fingers as she scolds, "Took you two long enough! Fawkes, you're it!"

Belatedly, Fawkes realizes that he is behind Gob. By Jinx's rules, that makes him the next one to hide. As he leaves, letting her shrill ten-count fade behind him, he goes for the only other part of the settlement he knows; her home. He does not actually enter the structure, but lingers outside by the small table. He does not attempt to sit in the chair, remembering how the furniture at the Brass Lantern had groaned beneath his weight, but examines the contents. An empty whiskey bottle, and an ash tray filled with grey grit and cigarette stubs. He didn't think Jinx smoked.

"Hey, mutie. Any word if Nova's sticking around?" comes a familiar coarse voice, and the reek of cigarettes. The neighbor. Of course. He turns to see Jericho leaning against the next house over, pulling out a lighter and grunting as he ignites a fresh smoke.

"I believe that depends on her negotiations with Moriarty," Fawkes says carefully, crossing his arms and straightening. Jericho seems like a man to exploit weakness; Jinx may call their relationship one of 'friendly hostility,' but Fawkes suspects his definitions may differ from Jinx's.

"Fucking miser better keep her around. She's better'n the booze," the man mumbles about his cigarette, breathing in long and hard, then sighing as smoke curls out his nostrils.

Fawkes hesitates, unsure whether to continue the conversation or attempt to ignore the man. He elects to put in a good word for Nova. "If you inform Moriarty of this, he may be willing to offer her more favorable terms."

"Fuck yeah. I might try that," Jericho chuckles, though it turns to a phlegmy hack. "How the hell does a super mutant talk like a scientist? Thought you were all dumber'n rocks."

"I am an aberration among my kind." He does not mention the terminal, or the loneliness, the weight of the walls pressing inward—they feel like distant nightmares, belonging to someone else. A terrible dream born of darkness and solitude, impossible to fathom in this world of bright light and open air. He wonders if that capacity for _suffering_ is the true aberration, more than his cognitive faculties.

"Fuckin' weird for _any_ kind." The muttered deprecation seems more general than directed malice, which Fawkes finds strangely reassuring. Jericho may not like him, but he dislikes everyone equally—being a super mutant earns no extra ire. "So, you ever fuck her?"

Gears go to a grinding halt, and Fawkes blinks in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

"Fuck her. You know, screw? Bang?" The man's eyes narrow, and he removes his cigarette to make exaggerated quotes. "'Fornicate,' if you need all the fancy words."

"I believe you misunderstand our friendship." The words feel strange on his tongue, and he schools his face to stillness. Whether the question is genuine curiosity or an attempt to bait him, it remains wildly inappropriate. He refuses to give Jericho the satisfaction of garnering a reaction, instead reciting the soothing mantra of a calm heart.

"For fuck's sake. Another so-called 'friendship.' Maybe it works different for muties, but here's some free advice for you." The man gives a feral grin, lips stained dark from where his teeth bit the edge of the cigarette. "Men and women ain't ever friends. They always want to bang. Or one wants to and the other doesn't and shit. Then it ain't friendship. It's just waiting around until they get just drunk and horny enough, and then—"

"And then Jericho shuts up kindly. We have children coming along, after all." Jinx lightly slaps Jericho's hand, the one holding the cigarette. "And those will kill you one day, Jericho."

"You should be so lucky. They might slow me down, but bullets go faster'n raiders anyway." He takes another long drag, deliberately blowing smoke in her face.

Nose wrinkled, she steps back with a cough. "Fine. Go smog up your lungs. I was just trying to help."

He shakes his head, giving a coarse chuckle. "Whatever. Mutie, do me a favor—when you screw her, bang her against the headboard a couple times. Might calm her down." Flicking ash from his cigarette, he finally retreats into his own home.

Jinx just laughs, silver tones like a forgotten melody. "He was giving you the good old 'men and women are never friends' speech?"

"I take it he attempted to teach it to you as well?" Fawkes asks. Her nod only confirms what he knew.

"Yeah. Funny thing is, that's not the first time I got the speech. My friend Butch had his own ideas on that," she chuckles, ruffling her hair-crest as she leans against the railing. "Always said that sex would screw things up between guys and girls in friendship. Either getting it or wanting it."

His brow furrows, and he looks down at Jinx as one pronoun sticks out. "Yet you were friends with this Butch?"

"Sure. His exception for me was because we were brothers." She smiles widely, her eyes crinkled and glowing. "Emphasis on 'brothers.' He claimed I was more like a guy than a girl anyway."

"You obviously never removed your shirt in front of him." He means it to be humorous, trying to light-heartedly recall their earlier conversation, but she smirks, eyes dancing with wicked delight as her voice drops into a seductive purr.

"Oh, Fawkes, you _noticed_." Suddenly she is too close again, batting her eyes upward and running her tongue over her lips, leaving them slick and inviting. He feels his cheeks burning and instinctively backpedals, feeling the bars of the railing blocking his retreat.

Just as abruptly as it came on, she drops the sultry persona, cringing with guilt. "Fawkes, that was a joke. I'm sorry." Heart thundering in his chest, he now remembers that night in Big Town, and her drawling about the sensual nature of books over dry data files. It had been easy enough to dismiss as a joke back then, surrounded by others who possessed better gauges for Jinx's erratic moods, but on his own… how is it even possible to feel cornered by a woman half his height?

"I'm so sorry," she repeats, reaching up as if to stroke his hand reassuringly, but pausing and taking a deliberate step back. "I guess we have more boundaries than just clothes to talk about. I am—I am so sorry." She is a broken doll now, face blank and shoulders slumped.

"I am sorry." The apology comes immediately, a mediocre attempt to restore some semblance of normalcy. Quiet and broken does not suit her.

"Don't be." She smiles now, but her eyes are distant and shining like stars. "I overstepped. Companions and partners, remember?"

"Friends." The word still feels strange on his tongue, but her sigh of relief makes it taste sweeter. "Perhaps we should talk tonight about those boundaries."

"Agreed." She hugs her arms tightly about herself, loosely twisting in place as if aching for contact, but she maintains her distance. It is with some relief that finally Harden finds them, face splitting with joy as he immediately stands next to Jinx. Gob and Maggie quickly follow, and then the next round begins as Maggie runs off to hide.

They play through several more rounds, but Fawkes never finds himself so uncomfortably alone with Jinx again. Whether this is deliberate on her part or simply lucky coincidence he is unable to determine, but the game finally ends when the sheriff calls Harden over for supper at the Brass Lantern, and Maggie decides that's time for her to go home.

"Well, that was fun," the wanderer breathes, puffing her lips outward as she rolls her shoulders back. Her gaze drifts upward to the grey skies turning gold about the edges as the sun drifts to the horizon. She smiles, all warmth and radiance from her very core, and snaps her fingers, seized by a sudden idea.

"Hey! Fawkes, c'mon, c'mon!" she urges, immediately running towards her Megaton home. Fawkes chases after her, fleetingly feeling as if this is another game of tag. She pauses by a pile of junk stacked against the house and starts climbing, balancing on a set of old tires and pulling herself onto the roof. Her legs flail about briefly and spider-like before she works enough momentum to hook one foot on the edge and squirm her way up.

"Look, we were so busy walking yesterday I don't think we got a chance to admire it, but this… you'll really like this, Fawkes. Come on!" she says breathlessly, looking down at him. Her eyes are shining brightly as stars, and he feels compelled to follow. "Gob, you come too! I bet you haven't seen one of these in a while!"

Gob struggles with his balance against the wall, and Fawkes laces his fingers together, offering an impromptu step that the ghoul gratefully accepts. Fawkes places one foot on a crate, then takes his next step onto a tower of metal boxes, then it is just a matter of grabbing the roof and pulling himself up on the flat roof with Gob and Jinx. She is spinning with wild abandon, arms wrapped around herself in the fiercest of embraces. Her smile is warmer than a thousand suns.

"Look." He follows her finger, staring westward as the sun dips low past the walls. The skies are painted red and orange, subtle fires fading into one another before dying in the distance. "Isn't it gorgeous? It's even better outside the walls, when the sun kisses the earth, but it's still—"

Gob beats her to finishing it. "Beautiful," he says, voice touched with wonder around cracked lips and flaking skin. "It's beautiful."

"It gets even better. We are watching the sun die, but the stars have yet to be born." Her tones are hushed, almost reverential. "I had read about this in Vault 101, but never seen it until I got out. I almost cried. We live in a world so full of wonder that the wonder is lost sometimes, or we forget to see it, or others hide us away from it and tell us there is nothing more to see…" Jinx sighs, giving herself one last squeeze. Then she steps between them, looping one arm around Gob's waist. Fawkes senses rather than feels her raise her other arm as if to take his hand, but she pulls back. Thinking back to Nova's comments about how lonely she is, he hesitantly touches his hand to her back. Her hand gently rests against his arm, squeezing. He tries not to shy away, but at least he can tolerate the touching.

'Tolerate' is one word for it, at least. It still makes him uneasy, but her vulnerability is, well, _touching_. It makes him want to protect her against the world.

Slowly the sun slips away, the last pink fingers of sunset dropping into the horizon. Just as slowly, inky blue darkness washes across the sky, scattered through with distant points of burning light. They gleam like pinpricks in the dark veil of the night, as if letting through the glow from some other celestial world.

"My father said they used to tell stories about the stars," she whispers, finally breaking her uncharacteristic silence. Her face tilts up, the faint starlight gleaming off her features and catching her eyes. "The ancients used to see pictures in the stars. Constellations, they called them."

"Orion the hunter. Leo and Cancer and all the animals of the Zodiac." The names come easily to Fawkes' lips, names he knows without recognizing the matching images. "The Dippers, big and small."

"I don't think any of them look like that," Gob says mournfully.

Jinx bites her lip, releasing Fawkes' arm to point to the north, tracing her finger along tentative paths between the stars. "Then if we don't know the constellations, we'll make our own," she says decisively. "See how those two connect? That looks like a radscorpion's claw. So if you connect to there, and then that's the body, and the tail… we have a radscorpion."

"Show me again."

So she takes his hand, cupping her hand over his and drawing invisible lines between the stars. Fawkes gazes skyward, trying to picture the heavenly constellations and the sheer imagination it must have taken to see shapes in the darkness. The ingenuity of mankind; to see the dizzying, beautiful expanse of the sky and decide that it is not enough, but then to trace shapes across the unimaginable void between the stars…

"I have read that the stars are distant suns, like our own. Burning off in the depths of space, so far away that even the light itself takes years to reach us. By the time a star dies, it would take at least that long for us to even notice its passing," he rumbles, sitting down on metal roof. What little heat it absorbed during the day has rapidly faded with the night chill, and at least while sitting he does not get that dizzying sense of there being nothing beneath him but thin air.

"We could be watching dead stars?" Gob asks, troubled.

"Maybe. But for tonight—" Jinx's voice catches, and she releases a wild skirl of laughter that dances through the night like a host of fireflies. "For tonight, the stars burn for us."


End file.
